


The Top-Secret Livejournal of Sherlock Holmes

by malacophilous (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Comedy, Crack, Diary/Journal, Drug use (nicotine), Language, M/M, Meta, Multi, Sexual Content, Sexual Humour, Sexual Tension, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:38:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/malacophilous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a Livejournal, which he updates constantly via his mobile phone and netbook. Everyone offline thinks that he's this stoic super-genius, when in reality he's a bonkers super-genius.  Written pre-S2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic may seem a trifle dated, as many jokes used in it later became massive memes (due most likely to fandom hive mind, rather than this fic being influential in any way).
> 
> Many thanks to Louise Rennison, author of the Confessions of Georgia Nicholson series of novels, which are the main inspiration for this work.

**Sunday, 19 December 2010**

**12:03pm**

**In my room, emphatically _not_ having a sulk**

**Nicotine patches today: 4 (not bad)**

Survey says: Still the world’s only consulting detective.

Unfortunately John is also still very straight.  He slept over at Sarah’s again last night, which is depressing and sad.  Not only is she no good for him, I have heard her make terrified noises in the face of life-threatening danger and that is never good when trying to deal conversationally with a person.  When one knows someone squeaks like a form of rodent that the general populace views as vermin, it is hard to respect someone, especially if they are in a ~~torrid~~ ~~lukewarm~~ pitiful excuse for an office romance with one’s flatmate.

 

**12:34pm**

**Still in my room**

Really, John is so terrifically oblivious.  Just yesterday I left a sheep’s heart on the tea tray and he didn’t even notice.  Well, that is stretching the truth a bit.  He did notice enough to shout ‘What the bloody hell is this, Sherlock’ at me from the kitchen while I was trying to work on my website.  Let me tell you, as I know the straightforward facts of the matter, it is quite impossible to manage one’s sidebar when one’s flatmate is wearing a cable-knit jumper that practically has baubles on and is shouting about things from across the flat like someone calling the cattle home across the sands of Dee.  Honestly it’s like a re-enactment of the Spanish Inquisition here, I am always the bloody scapegoat.

 

But, I mean, who wouldn’t understand that the heart was a symbol of my undying affection?  I never use the tea tray, I did not put it there for my personal use.  And it is a sheep’s heart, so in addition to being a heart which is _so obvious_ it also says, I think quite nicely, ‘My love for you makes me go a bit stupid and bleaty and also I am herded by sheepdogs,’ which is touching, really, if one thinks about it.

 

Also perhaps ‘I can provide you with all the woolly jumpers you desire.’  That’s more of a selling point.

 

But to be fair, the police are very much like sheepdogs.  Especially Anderson, when he’s got his beardy monstrosity on.  His face practically gets lost in it, so if he were to grow his fringe out (which apparently is quite fashionable now, I had no idea until John pointed out that all the young people on telly have their fringe in their eyes) he would look very much like a sheepdog.  Those soulful, pathetic eyes!  That earnest expression!  Lestrade is more like some sort of hound, in a good way.  Or perhaps a Mounty.  He would look very flash in red.

 

God, John is _so cross_ today.  Now he’s shouting at me about the stuff in the toaster.  How was I to know he would want toast at lunchtime of all times?  For one thing, to any sane person toast is clearly a breakfast and tea food only.  His insistence that toast is appropriate at midday is surely a sign of a sharp upswing in moral corruption.  And how was I to know he would want toast today at all?  Sometimes he does not want toast for days on end.  I think I’m right in saying that this in-and-out running is typically frowned upon and ought to be stopped.

 

**12:56pm**

**In the front room, ignoring John because he is cross**

At least Moriarty said ‘Hi sexy,’ to me that one time, which is nice.

 

I admire honesty in a person.

 

**1:02pm**

Even if they are intractably evil.

 

**1:09pm**

Sarah really is oppressively like a mouse, with her mousy face and her mousy mouseishness.  How can John possibly want to get off with her?  Surely he can’t think she’s charming?  What sort of charm do mice have?  Does he have a mouse fetish?  Perhaps she is building him a nest made of tissues and lint from the clothes dryer.

 

**1:13pm**

A love nest.

 

**1:15pm**

Damn it all.

 

**1:20pm**

Mycroft just called me and went on about some daft thing I don’t care a whit about, nattering on for practically a century when I could have spent that time ~~sulking~~ on more important pursuits.  I said to him, ‘Mycroft, you are talking consummate rot.  I’m really far too busy as it is and therefore have no time to run your errands.’

 

And he said, ‘You haven’t any plans, nor do you have a case.  You’ve been sitting round your flat sulking for the past three days.’

 

I said, ‘I have _not_ been sulking.’

 

He said, ‘You haven’t changed out of your pyjamas since Wednesday evening.’

 

I was affronted by this insinuation, and I think my tone got that across.  ‘I have changed into fresh pyjamas every day, _thank_ you.’

 

‘But they are still pyjamas,’ he said, ‘and that is the sad truth.’

 

That’s when I rang off.  My brother simply cannot understand the idea that other people have proper lives and can’t just drop everything they happen to be doing, simply to serve his whims.  I swear it’s like talking to a sock, with how little real comprehension of speech he has.

 

**1:30pm**

Dear God, I am so bored.

 

**1:32pm**

John’s gone off to do the shopping.  I would shoot things in his absence, but he seems to have taken his gun with him.  He might get away with that if he went to Tesco but I don’t think Sainsbury’s would let concealed weapons slide.  Perhaps he has just hidden it very well.  I may go look for it.

 

I hope he remembers to get milk.  I have reminded him seven times already today, but sometimes these things don’t get through to the command centre in time for execution.  There are times when I think that if I were to open John’s skull I would find wool in there rather than a brain.

 

A knitted brain.

 

A brain made of jumpers.

 

**1:47pm**

Went down to see Mrs Hudson but she is not in.  The note on the door said that she is out at the salon having her hair ‘set’, whatever that bloody means.

 

Everyone is so obsessed with themselves nowadays that they have no time for me.

 

I wonder sometimes if Mrs Hudson is secretly a goth.  She paints her fingernails black most of the time and she took my skull (I got it back, but the fact that she took it in the first place was telling), and I am constantly hearing the soundtrack from _Interview with the Vampire_ playing downstairs.  Also she seems to take quite as much of an interest in murders as I do, when she’s not in a strop about the state of the flat.  Not to mention I have seen inside of her flat and there are bat sconces.  That is to say, sconces shaped like bats.  Not sconces for the express purpose of holding bats.  Or made of bats.  I think the animal cruelty people would have something to say about it if they were, unless they were taxidermied beforehand.  Not that they’d be any more keen on stuffed bats than alive bats.  Oh God, shut up brain, shut up.

 

**1:52pm**

If I find out that she’s the one behind my mysteriously missing blood samples I am going to actually have an actual fit.

 

**2:30pm**

Found a way to occupy myself and alleviate boredom, and that is: search John’s room for incriminating possessions!  So far I have found one thing that could be construed as mildly incriminating, and that is lotion.  But I think he actually uses the lotion for what it says it’s for on the label, not for wanking or anything.

 

This is a very sad state of affairs.  He does not even have any porn—and I’ve already checked his computer, twice.  No porn on the hard drive.  No porn in the browser history, even.  GOOD GOD WHAT DOES THIS MAN DO WITH HIS PENT-UP SEXUAL ENERGY, IS HE A ROBOT?  I suppose if he were a robot he could convert sexual energy into clean-burning fuel.

 

I think I may have discovered the answer to global warming.  At times like this I am staggered by my own brilliance.

 

But in all seriousness, John might explode in a gushing fountain of semen any day now.  Best put down the plastic sheeting just in case, I wouldn’t want it to interfere with any of my experiments.  A fuck-tonne of John’s sperm would certainly throw the results.

 

**2:38pm**

In the throes of orgasm, John’s sperm would throw the results.

 

**2:41pm**

In the throes of orgasm, having thrown caution to the winds, John, his mind blown, blowing his load, would throw the results.

 

**2:50pm**

_Fuck_.  Stop that, brain.

 

**3:00pm**

I have discovered something of importance!  John has the complete works of Oscar Wilde under plain covers.

 

**3:15pm**

He has underlined large sections of _The Picture of Dorian Gray._   And not the bits about murder.

 

**3:36pm**

He also owns a stuffed bear that is missing an eye and appears to be held together with butchers’ twine and hope.  This bear is a pretty tough character and looks as if it has been to hell and back.  It has seen the seedy underbelly of the plush toy world.  It was clearly sent down from its school for talking back to the masters and setting fire to things.  This bear has seen horrors from which it cannot escape.

 

Honestly, it has such a forlorn, guilt-ridden expression that I want to put it out of its misery.  It even hangs its head!  Who would have a teddy bear like that?  It has got a face like it’s just killed a man.

 

**3:40pm**

I have decided that this bear, in a flight of anger brought on by the treatment it received from its emotionally detached parents and also being made redundant at its arms trading job, has murdered another plush toy, possibly a rabbit that wears a waistcoat and pince-nez.  It rose up against the aristocracy and showed them that it would no longer be oppressed.  Now it’s on the run.  The bear is hiding out here because the home of the world’s only consulting detective is the last place the plush toy authorities would look for a homicidal teddy.

 

**3:51pm**

The bear was hiding a hand’s length under the bed.  Does that mean that John keeps it there during the day and then takes it out to cuddle at night, or that he tossed it under there to avoid detection?  There’s very little dust on the bear, though it could use a good washing.  Good Lord, no wonder its head lolls about floppily, all of the stuffing has been hugged into the cranial area and the chest cavity and there is none left in its neck.  John must cuddle the bear about the neck, most often.  I don’t think John would purposefully throw it under the bed.  Perhaps it just fell off the bed this morning and John didn’t notice.  I wonder what its name is.

 

**3:54pm**

If this bear’s name is not something like Mr Tumbles or Professor Mackintosh or Wimbledon or Sir Laughsalot I am going to have to have strong words with John about it.

 

**4:00pm**

Damn damn damnity damn, John is home, he is downstairs, how can I casually stroll down there and act as if I haven’t just been ransacking his room and interrogating his bear?

 

**4:10pm**

**In the front room**

I came downstairs a moment ago and John said, ‘What were you doing up in my room?’

 

(Careful, self, don’t say anything stupid.)  ‘I needed a pen.’

 

John said, ‘But there’s plenty pens on the desk.’  (Damn, he’s bound to rumble me now!)

 

I said, ‘Oh, so there are,’ and, astonishingly, he seemed satisfied.

 

Then John told me that Mycroft had called him while he was doing the shopping—John was, I mean, not Mycroft, because I think if Mycroft ever set foot in Sainsbury’s he would fall down dead and honestly don’t believe he has ever seen a Chip and PIN machine in his life.

 

I said to John, ‘Why did he call you?’

 

John rolled his eyes at me and said, ‘Because you refused the pleasant, easy job he offered you.’

 

‘It was not pleasant and easy.  It was a stupid job,’ I said, which was true, because _all_ of Mycroft’s jobs are stupid.

 

‘We could use the money,’ said John in a casually supercilious way.  His jumper and the shirt under it had ridden up at the back from stooping to put the tomatoes in the fridge drawer, and a strip of his lower back was showing.  He apparently has a birthmark, though I couldn’t tell how big it was.  I only saw a little bit of it.

 

I said, ‘Mycroft wouldn’t pay us, you know that.’

 

‘Why not?  He already buys all of your clothes.’

 

He had a point, of course, but I wasn’t going to let him use that against me.  He wasn’t supposed to find out about that in the first place.  ‘Mycroft buys my clothes because otherwise I would dress, as he puts it, _inappropriately_.’

 

John snorted, the git.  ‘I suppose he doesn’t fancy your silk-screened David Bowie tee shirt collection?’

 

I decided to put him in his place.  John needs the firm hand at times like this.  ‘Five shirts do not constitute a _collection_.’

 

And I feel I told him off properly, for he didn’t press the issue any further.

 

**5:01pm**

**In my room again**

I am so devastatingly bored that life has lost all meaning.

 

**5:03pm**

Oh, look, a Cadbury Flake.  How did that get in here?

 

**5:05pm**

Eaten a whole Flake without any third-party assistance and I feel so full I might pass out.

 

**5:24pm**

Managed to crawl into the front room, which is about as big as the Gobi Desert by the way, and collapse on the sofa.  John is working on his blog and will not pay attention to me.  Luckily I have dragged my laptop in here with me, otherwise this would have been a pointless venture.  I am so very full it is terrible, but I also want some milk.

 

‘Did you get milk, John?’

 

‘What’s that you’re groaning?’

 

‘MILK.’

 

‘Yeah, it’s in the fridge.  I figured you’d short-sheet my bed or something if I didn’t.’

 

‘Get me a glass, John.’

 

He’s just sitting there, typing in that stupid hunt-and-tap way of his.  God, he doesn’t even use all of his fingers.  One entry will take him the rest of the day.  Possibly two days.  He may not be done in time for Christmas.

 

I suppose if he ever uses Google Instant fifty extra pages of results come into being before he hits enter.

 

‘MILK, John.  A glass of milk.’

 

‘I’m busy just now.  Get it yourself.’

 

He is so cruel!  ‘But John, I’m _sick_.’

 

That is the key word to use to get John’s attention.  He will stop whatever he is doing and stare at me if I ever say I’m sick.

 

He’s staring at me now.  Good.

 

‘Are you really?’

 

‘Yes, awfully.’  I’d clutch my stomach, but it would jostle my laptop.  ‘Awfully, dreadfully sick.’

 

‘Then you ought not to be drinking milk.  Might upset your stomach.’

 

Oh, he is a cad sometimes.  ‘But _John._ ’

 

‘You’re not sick, you’re smirking.’

 

‘One can be sick and smirk at the same time.’

 

‘You just want me to get up because you can’t be bothered to do it yourself.’

 

‘I ate today.’

 

Ha!  That threw him.  (Threw... throw... throes of orgasm, John’s semen everywhere OH GOD MY BRAIN, WHY.)

 

‘You ought to eat, you know, _more_ than once a day.’  John has a strange ability to keep one sigh going for almost a month.  He must have the lung capacity of a bull elephant, because his sighs just keep going on for ages even after you’d think he’d be turning blue and wobbling.  ‘What did you eat?’

 

‘Curbr Fl.’  It annoys him when I mumble.  He deserves it, not getting my milk for me when I so desperately require it.

 

‘Sorry, what?’

 

‘Cadbury Flake.’

 

Honestly, his sighs must be the sign of some kind of superhuman breathing ability.  Perhaps he is part whale.  ‘Hurrah, you’ve eaten a Flake bar.’

 

God, how does he go from being so animated to being so deadpan?  I mean, I can do that, of _course_ , because I am a master thespian when it suits me, but regular people ought not to be allowed.  I wonder if he ever went out for theatrical stuff at school.

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘That’s it?’

 

‘A _whole_ bar, John.  On my own.’

 

‘Small children are capable of that, Sherlock, don’t make it sound like a Herculean effort.’

 

‘And a small child could easily fetch me a glass of milk.’

 

‘Right.’  Sigh Time: One minute, twenty-three seconds, a new record.  ‘Fine.  Shall I go fetch you a small child?’

 

‘The fridge is closer.’

 

‘Fuck off, I’m working.’

 

By Christ, the nerve of him.  I ought to laugh at his bear.

 

 

**Monday, 20 December 2010**

**6:00am**

Woke up to a text from Lestrade!  A case, a case, a case!  Oh, joy unbounded!

 

**6:01am**

Disregard that.  He dropped his phone while trying to turn off his alarm, and I accidentally got auto-texted.

 

Either that, or _Arjtkzsa!3_ is a cipher that needs cracking.

 

**6:03am**

Not a cipher.

 

Going back to sleep.

 

 

**6:04am**

Can’t sleep.  Keep thinking about John’s semen.  Internet, O balm of my heart, ease my sorrows!

 

**6:28am**

4chan has raided my website’s forum.

 

I don’t know if I should be honoured or horrified/insulted.  Can I be both?

 

**6:43am**

NO, ANONYMOUS, I DO NOT ‘DEDUCE’ WHICH PAIRS OF TROUSERS ARE CLEAN BY SNIFFING THE CROTCHES.

 

**7:05am**

FUCK YOU SIDEWAYS, RULE 34.

 

**7:12am**

It’s kind of flattering to have fan art, though.  I bet Anderson doesn’t have any fan art.

 

Moriarty has some, though.  People seem to think we’re entangled in some manner of flagrantly gay, kinky relationship.  Ha!  As if I would ever consent to wear kitty ears, much less the matching tail.  Besides, Moriarty clearly doesn’t have the upper body strength to wield a flogger that long and still have any semblance of aim.

 

That one artist got my cock just right, though.  I should thank them.

 

**7:20am**

I find myself incredibly amused by these people.  Currently forwarding the Rule 34 artwork to Mycroft.  I hope he gets into trouble for it.  I hope the _Queen Herself_ chastises him for having hand-drawn porn of himself and his younger, more handsome brother in his browser history.

 

Not that the Queen would actually _know_ it was there, she would have to go on hearsay.  Surely they wouldn’t show her?

 

**7:26am**

On second thought, not forwarding this to Mycroft.  I don’t want to embarrass the Queen.

 

I wonder if they’ve raided John’s blog?

 

**7:30am**

THEY _HAVE_.

 

THERE IS ALSO A TERRIBLE MSPAINT DRAWING OF JOHN FUCKING A JUMPER.

 

AHAHAHAHAHA I’M JUST GOING TO LEAVE THIS HERE.

 

**7:50am**

I appear to be out of nicotine patches.

 

**7:51am**

John has not replied to my six consecutive texts regarding my need for him to go buy me more nicotine patches.

 

Damn.  I suppose this means I have to go out.

 

**8:30am**

Doesn’t John need to _be_ somewhere?  Something like employment?

 

Because I went upstairs to make sure he was not dead, as I do whenever I leave the flat before he comes down for breakfast, and right now he is sunk in what I believe is termed ‘hoggish slumber’ with Troubled Home-life Bear shoved under his face.

 

I ought not to wake him.  He is so sweet when he is sleeping.

 

**9:08am**

**Outside a chemist’s**

Got patches, stuck some on myself.  Feel less inclined to murder everyone.

 

I think I’ll stop by the lab and see how my cultures are getting on.

 

**10:00am**

**Barts**

Merciful fuck, how is Molly so painfully awkward without ever noticing it, herself?

 

I ask this rhetorically but with an end in mind, as she has knitted me a neon yellow tea cosy with ruffles all over it, and it is clear that if there was ever a time for her to realise what a goof she is, it would be now.  I thought it would be obvious from my lofty and majestic bearing that I don’t make my own tea, but she says she thought of me when she saw the pattern, so apparently not.

 

She says it is a tea cosy version of Herpes Simplex Virus 2.  Surely I haven’t mentioned my fondness for Giant Microbes?  Is she coming onto me?  Is this a cry for help?  I don’t know what to think.

 

Perhaps she intended it to be for John.  I will leave it in the kitchen, and say I got it to replace ours.  Our tea cosy is perfectly fine at the moment, but I’ll think of something to do to it.  Soak it in stomach acid?  Yes, that would serve, now I’ve just got to get enough stomach acid to fill the sink.

 

I’m sure Molly would be happy to assist me if I slipped her the link to that fan art.  I’ve _so_ wanted to share it with someone, as it is so well-executed, and she will be terribly grateful.  She is, for some unfathomable reason, obsessed with getting into my trousers.  I don’t know precisely what she thinks she would find there—one can only hope not the tea cosy nor its extended family—but whatever her motivation, she is hideously awkward about it.

 

Perhaps I should find her a boyfriend—a proper one, who is not Moriarty.  Molly was no good for him, anyway.  She is far too vulnerable, I’m sure she only held him back.  No, Moriarty needs a powerful, self-assured significant other who is at least at the super-genius level; someone who appreciates fashion as much as he does and is calm and masterful enough to put up with his mood swings.

 

**10:30am**

Rule 34 has become the primary filter in my brain and now I am mentally pairing Moriarty with my brother.

 

Oh God, I think I need to have a lie-down.  I cannot hold in my laughter forever without straining some vital part of my anatomy.

 

**12:10pm**

**Home**

John is still here!  What is he playing at?

 

**12:29pm**

Oh, he’s broken it off with Sarah.  He’s also lost his position at the clinic because they had a huge row about it during working hours.

 

**12:40pm**

Well, at least he doesn’t do things by halves.

 

**1:00pm**

**In my room**

John is working on his blog again, probably venting his frustrations into the gaping black hole that is the blogosphere.  By the gloom-shrouded look on his face, he has not checked his comments yet.  I hope he checks them soon.  Perhaps the jumper-fucking will cheer him up.

 

In the meantime, I have come to my room to do victory dances and cross off things on my How to Win John Over checklist.

 

For reference, the checklist is now as follows:

 

  1. Leave him symbolic gifts. (Ongoing) ~~||||~~ ~~||||~~ |||
  2. Be very attractive all of the time, even when I am sleeping. (Constant)
  3. Save his life. (Ongoing) ||||
  4. Show capacity for basic human kindness and feeling. (Possibly ongoing; he doesn’t _need_ to be reminded, does he?) |
  5. (Take-away doesn’t count.) |||
  6. ~~Eliminate Sarah from the equation.~~   AT LAST!
  7. ~~Get him terminated from his clinic position.~~ Now I’ll have him to myself!
  8. Flatter him at unexpected times. ~~||||~~ ~~||||~~ ~~||||~~ ~~||||~~ ||||
  9. Read his blog. (Ongoing) ~~||||~~ ~~||||~~ ~~||||~~ ||
  10. Introduce the concept of a relationship. (Somewhat ongoing)
  11. (Not necessarily after #10) Profit!



 

 

I feel I have made excellent progress thus far.

 

Oh, I just heard a disgusted noise from the front room.  John must have found the 4channers.

 

**3:34pm**

It was not a disgusted noise, it was a laugh.

 

I came in to see whether any tentacle porn had shown up since I checked John’s blog comments this morning, and John was wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.

 

John said, ‘Did you orchestrate this to cheer me up?’

 

I said, ‘What, me?  No!  No, absolutely not.’

 

‘I don’t believe it.’

 

‘They got me, too.  Have a look.’

 

That’s how John and I spent the next hour scrolling through my forum together on our laptops, reading out the best bits, rolling about laughing and turning our screens round so the other could see the pictures, even though the other could have just as easily scrolled a bit further down.  It was ridiculous and I can’t stop smiling, even an hour later.

 

Also I have eaten an entire sarnie and I don’t feel the slightest bit ill.  John says he is proud of me.

 

His bear’s name, by the way, is Mr Mugsy.  I’m so relieved.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aliens, David Bowie, and Sherlock's canonical love of bees and opera.

**Tuesday, 21 December 2010**

 **10:44am**

 **In the front room**

 **Nicotine patches today: 2 (very good)**

Despite my desperate pleas for mercy and eventually resorting to threats and struggling, John forced me, practically at gunpoint, to, and I quote him directly, ‘eat something for breakfast, damn it.’

 

So I had a custard cream.  A custard cream is something, isn’t it?  I explained this very logically to him but he was still cross.

 

I said to him, ‘John, we don’t have any cases.  I don’t need fuel, as I am not running about.’

 

But John takes medicine Very Seriously, and banged on about caloric intake and starvation mode and all sorts of rubbish that I instantly deleted because it is, as I say, rubbish.

 

 **10:52am**

I wonder how many calories are in a custard cream?  Checking the tin.

 

 **10:58am**

Fifty-eight!  Gosh, that should keep be going for about three days.

 

 **11:01am**

I seem to have a bit of a tummy.  Has it always been there?  It sticks out a bit.

 

Surely it’s not from the custard cream alone.

 

 **11:05am**

If I pull it in and then let it out really quickly and then repeat the process it’s like something is leaping about in my midsection.

 

Like an alien.

 

 **11:09am**

I need an expert’s advice on this.

 

I have asked John, ‘Do I have a tummy alien, John?  Come have a look.’  And he’s rolled his eyes at me, if you can believe it.

 

I do not think he takes my tummy alien Very Seriously.

 

 **12:13pm**

 **In the front room again**

Just had a bath.  I managed to sing the entirety of the _Labyrinth_ soundtrack before the water got cold.  It is shaping up to be a rather bearable day.

 

I wish John would chime in sometimes, though.  I know he must know the words by now, at the _very_ least to ‘Magic Dance’.  I feel that this counts as neglectful of him, not singing with me.  I even leave the door open when I have a bath, so he can hear properly and join in on the right cues.  But he never does.  He is immune to the siren call of David Bowie.

 

Perhaps he really is a robot.

 

 **12:30pm**

I said to John, ‘John, speaking as a friend, I would like to know why you never sing songs with me when I am in the bath.’

 

He said, ‘Because it’s ridiculous.’

 

His faulty logic is no match for mine!  ‘Not any more ridiculous than you shouting at the telly when Manchester doesn’t win.’

 

‘You shout at the telly, as well.’

 

‘Yes, but _everyone_ shouts at Jeremy Kyle.’

 

‘They don’t.’

 

‘I am sure even Mycroft does.’

 

‘Does Mycroft watch crap telly?’

 

I felt that dragging my degenerate brother into the exchange was straying from the point, and I decided to rein in the conversation.  ‘What I am saying is that you ought to sing with me.  I feel it is more than enough to repay my saving your life.’

 

John held up some fingers to elucidate his point.  I am not saying which ones.  ‘I saved your life first, actually, so we’re even.’

 

‘But I saved your life a second time at the pool.  Actually, twice in that same night.  So you owe me a lot of singing.  Perhaps even the entirety of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars: The Motion Picture.’

 

John clutched at his face as if I had just splashed him with acid.  ‘Look,’ he groaned.  His groans can last about as long as his sighs.  Makes a fellow wonder if he ever shuts up in bed.  ‘I’m not going to argue about this.’

 

I could have pointed out that we were not arguing, we were discussing, but that reminded me of my parents and I did not want to imagine John in a floral apron and clogs and myself in a horrible brown cardigan, smoking a churchwarden pipe.  I suppose it would be the other way round, as John is the cardigan fanatic, but I hate clogs, so he’s got to be stuck with them, instead.

 

 **12:45pm**

Borrrrrrrrrrrrrred.

 

 **12:52pm**

I might even call Mycroft back about that job he had for me yesterday.

 

No, that would be craven and foul.  I won’t allow him to control me and send me on his petty errands like a fetch-and-carry boy.

 

That is final.  Full stop.

 

 **1:00pm**

Calling Mycroft.

 

 **1:07pm**

I said, ‘Mycroft, I have been thinking, and—’

 

He said, ‘Of course you have.  You always come round in the end.’

 

I took umbrage with this.  ‘I do not.  I stick to my principles.’

 

He laughed down the phone like a drain gurgling.  ‘Yes, of course, dear.  Keep believing that, if it pleases you.’

 

And then he rang off.  Honestly, I do not know why I put up with him.  He is a caddish cad of enormous proportions.  His cadly ways are the bane of my existence.

 

He is coming over to discuss the footwork he needs doing, because apparently sitting through a car ride across London during the lunch-time pile-up is far less of a strain on his delicate constitution than sending me one bloody explanatory text.

 

 **1:28pm**

I will be mentally slashing him with Moriarty the whole time.  That’ll put a spoke in his wheel.

 

 **2:00pm**

I have told John that Mycroft will be arriving soon, and John is indecently amused.  He said, ‘Broken down your resolve, has he?  Chipped away at your principles with his immoral wiles?’

 

I said very haughtily, ‘John, I haven’t the faintest idea to what you are referring.’

 

He thinks he is so clever and adroit.

 

I said with what would appear to be earnest curiosity, as I am a theatrical genius and master thespian, ‘How is Mr Mugsy today?  Ticking along?’

 

The smile slid off his face as if it were the slime mould I’m growing in the vegetable drawer.  ‘Fine,’ he said in a clipped manner.  He is apparently sensitive about his bear.  Possibly not a robot, then.

 

I still wanted to get a rise out of him, so I said, ‘I see your jumper looks particularly... sated.’

 

That is when he took his laptop and left the room.

 

That is fine.  He deserves it.

 

 **2:05pm**

I miss John.  I wish Mycroft would get here already so I can complain at him.

 

 **2:13pm**

I have drawn a bee in MSPaint.  I believe this will cheer John up.

 

 **2:15pm**

I forgot to add wings, but can’t be arsed to go back and stick them on.  Drawing with a touchpad is emotionally draining and I do not think I can carry on.

 

 **2:17pm**

This is a war-torn bee.  I feel John will be able to relate to this bee and perhaps they will become friends.  Both have seen hardship and struggle.  Perhaps this bee got coal for Christmas as a child.  He lost his wings in the heat of battle.  He has just recently been invalided home.

 

 **2:24pm**

From the Great Hive-Collapse War of 2010.  It was a civil war, spurred mostly by a small child throwing rocks, and also the drones rising up and demanding they be given access to royal jelly whenever they pleased.

 

It was the bee equivalent of the French Revolution.

 

 **2:27pm**

Many brave souls lost their lives to the bee-otine.

 

 **2:30pm**

I wonder if Moriarty likes puns?  Mycroft does.

 

 **2:32pm**

 _I’ll pun the heart out of you._

 

 **2:34pm**

I am busy making John lovely things, I do not need to be thinking about my arch-nemeses shagging and singing Gilbert & Sullivan tunes at each other.

 

 **2:40pm**

 **Music: Gilbert & Sullivan, Pirates of Penzance: ‘When a Felon’s Not Engaged in His Employment’**

SHUT UP, BRAIN.

 

 **4:50pm**

I took my laptop up to John’s room and stuck my head round the door.  He had left it (the door) open, I feel, so I could do just that.

 

I said to him, ‘John, I have toiled selflessly to make you a wonderful gift, and I have even come upstairs to show it to you so you wouldn’t have to check your inbox, because I know that can be tiresome and interfere with your hectic schedule.’  And I turned my laptop round for him to see the screen.

 

‘It is a bee,’ I said.  ‘Look, he hasn’t got wings any longer.  That’s the bee version of getting shot in the shoulder.’

 

John looked at me like I’d just had a squirrel fall out of my mouth.  ‘You’ve drawn me a bee.’

 

‘Yes!’ I said, all proud and beaming.  I smiled, because that is what one does in these situations.

 

‘Is it, er... is it me, as a bee?’ John asked.  He looked very confused.  I can’t imagine why—I made him a bee as a gesture of my undying love!  How is that difficult to understand?  It isn’t, is what.  ‘Or is it just a bee?’

 

‘Oh, he’s just a bee,’ I said to reassure him.  If I _had_ drawn John a portrait as a bee, it would have been wearing a jumper, as any fool could have realised.

 

‘Right,’ John said slowly.  I do not see why he was so mystified; it is an obvious symbol of my affection.  I mean, bees have to do with love, right? 

 

 _Bee_ mine.

 

 _Honey_ moon.

 

You give me a buzz.

 

You might drone on, but I’m a queen so I don’t care.

 

These are obvious conclusions, I feel, and any rational person would draw them.

 

I said, ‘Don’t you like it?’

 

He said, ‘Male bees don’t have stingers, Sherlock.’

 

He wasn’t taking it the way I had hoped and he was throwing me off balance, conversation-wise, so I sort of panicked.  I opened my mouth to speak and ‘It is a transbee,’ is what fell out of it.

 

John’s expression started to subtly change.  ‘A pre-operative transsexual veteran bee?’

 

(Just run with it, self.  It can’t get any worse than it already is.)  ‘Yes, well, he doesn’t, at present, have further plans to transition.  He’s just getting his priorities sorted, you know.  Getting used to civilian life.  Finding himself.’  I paused significantly, raising my eyebrows.  ‘Looking for love.’

 

John raised his eyebrows right back at me, and those adorable lines in his forehead showed up.  Not a moment passes that I don’t want to kiss them, all the way across his forehead.  Every single one.

 

John said, ‘Is he on hormones?  Do I need to give him injections?  Because I’m fully qualified to administer medication.’

 

I said very respectfully, ‘That is a very personal matter.  You would have to ask him.’

 

And I think that was the best thing to say, all things considered.  John sat there, staring at my laptop screen, his face torn between perplexity and amusement.  I stood there like a potted frond, swaying slightly out of nervousness.

 

‘That’s absolutely precious and not a little strange,’ said Mycroft, who was standing behind me.  I hadn’t heard him come up the stairs.  He may have flown up on his umbrella.  ‘And I do apologise for interrupting, but Sherlock, we have pressing business to discuss.’

 

Why does my brother have to despoil everything good and lovely in the world?  I just know that, if he hadn’t shown up, at any moment John would have been on his back on his bed, begging in no uncertain terms for the glorious length of my cock.  My romantic skills are, after all, unparalleled, not to mention my being very attractive all of the time even when I am sleeping (as per #2 on my How to Win John Over list), but leave it to Mycroft to wilt even the most raging sexual tension.

 

 **5:00pm**

I ought to give Moriarty his number.  That’d put a spoke in his wheel.

 

Both of their wheels.

 

 **5:03pm**

 **Music: Gilbert & Sullivan, H.M.S. Pinafore, ‘Nevermind the Why and Wherefore’**

I think my brain is trying to kill me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Convalescent Sherlock, talking through a kitchen roll tube, kidnapping and special guest appearances by Sarah, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.

**Thursday, 20 January, 2011**

 **9:07am**

 **In my bedroom, convalescing**

 **Nicotine patches today: 2 so far (decent)**

I have not posted for what feels like a century, because John and I had a case.  It was very exciting and we got the killer in the end, and all that, but the upshot of the final dramatic chase scene (during which I dashed about attractively, said clever things and John got some shots off at the criminal and looked manly) is that I severely sprained my ankle.

 

I say severely because it sort of hung off the end of my leg like a noodle from a fork until John put it right, and now I am all strapped up like a mummy and John says I have to not walk about at all for at least a week.  I asked him, ‘What if Lestrade texts me about a case and he needs my assistance?’ and John said back, ‘He can go smoke a cock, you’re on bed rest.’

 

Until that moment I had had no conception that the phrase ‘smoke a cock’ was in common parlance, and I certainly wouldn’t have thought John would use it, even if I had known about it.  Also now I am every few minutes plagued with the idea of Lestrade having dodgy relations in the big cubicle at the end of a public lavatory.  There is a lot of slurping in these thoughts.

 

I don’t know whether to be pleased or horrified, but such seems to be my usual state these days.

 

Since John has not been working (save for one ill-fated dog-sitting venture that ended with a bleeding elbow and a minor explosion in the kitchen), he has taken it upon himself to be my caregiver, bless him.  The only downside is that he’s forcing me to eat entire meals (custard creams don’t count, apparently), which has been a somewhat painful experience as my tummy alien rebels against such wanton shovelling-in of foodstuffs.  I am of a good mind, after lunch today, to make John rub my tummy alien until it feels better.  If he refuses I will boycott food entirely until he gives in.

 

Even if he makes violent gestures with a fork, which is very likely.

 

 **9:34am**

 **Still in my room**

Sarah was skulking round last evening, probably trying to get back into John’s good graces.  She was at the door and John almost went down to see who it was, but I already knew who it was because I had seen her out of the window in the front room.

 

I told John from my bed of pain which was actually the sofa, ‘If you go down there and speak with her, you are dead to me.’

 

And John said, ‘That’s a bit dramatic,’ which just shows you how close he is to committing such a terrible crime as welcoming the mousy mousemistress back into his jumpery arms when clearly she doesn’t deserve it.

 

‘DEAD,’ I repeated, making my eyes very big, ‘TO ME.’

 

So he stayed in his armchair and sulked, plucking at a stray thread on his jumper sleeve as if it had personally offended him.  I do not see why he takes out his anger on his jumper like that when I am right here, fully prepared to take a juicy lashing which would naturally turn into a tumble across the floor, laboured breathing and a sudden yet inevitably passionate kiss.

 

Mrs Hudson eventually answered the door, of course, as she was in.  I heard her say, ‘John?  Oh, I don’t know if he’s in, dear, let me just go up and—’ but before she could come up the stairs I grabbed an old kitchen roll tube I’d been fiddling with and put it up to my mouth, and started making Very Sexual Noises in the direction of the door.

 

John whipped round and glared at me.  ‘Sherlock, what are you _doing_?’ he hissed, which just proves that Sarah’s presence degrades his cognitive capabilities because it was obvious to even the meanest intelligence that I was trying to scare her off.

 

‘Unf!’ I shouted into the tube.  ‘Nnngh, _God,_ John, don’t stop, _right there_ , yes!’

 

John buried his face completely in his hands and I think he might have been blushing, which is simply too adorable for words.

 

‘Oh,’ I heard Mrs Hudson say from the stairs, ‘sounds like he’s a bit busy, love, would you like to come back later?’

 

I didn’t hear Sarah’s reply, as I was too busy growling wantonly into the tube, but I heard the front door snick closed and Mrs Hudson’s mutter of, ‘I ought to call Mrs Turner and see about updating the score,’ whatever that means.

 

‘What,’ said John, ‘the fuck was that about?’

 

‘She’s no good for you, John,’ I said, ‘as you’ve no doubt realised.’

 

‘But you needn’t make it sound like we’re having sex!’

 

I idly scratched my ankle through the bandages with a pencil.  ‘Why not?’

 

I mean to say, it seemed a reasonable plan.  And really, we ought to be having sex.  I think this counts toward my How To Win John Over checklist.

 

John threw his hands up in frustration.  His ears were bright red.  I wanted to kiss them.  ‘Because we’re _not_!’

 

‘Yes, but we could have been,’ I said.  ‘Hypothetically.’  I gestured with my scratching pencil.  ‘Even Mrs Hudson thinks so.’

 

‘Mrs Hudson is obsessed with homosexuals,’ John grumbled under his breath.  He is basically right, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of indisputably knowing about Mrs Hudson’s slash goggles.

 

‘Perhaps,’ I said, sort of as a joke but not really, ‘if we keep it up and squeak my mattress, she’ll shave a bit off the rent.’

 

John leapt to his feet and started pacing.  ‘That was completely uncalled for, what you just did.  I’m of a mind to... to pinch you or something.’

 

Coming from a man who has shot serial killers in cold blood, not to mention invaded Afghanistan practically by himself, this statement made me want to curl my toes and giggle like a schoolgirl.  I couldn’t, of course, because I don’t giggle unless John’s giggling with me, and only half of my toes could, at that moment, curl without tiny invisible demons clawing at my ankle’s tiny soul.

 

So instead I said, ‘Go ahead.  Your threats perturb me not.’

 

‘No,’ John shot back, ‘no, if you’re going to be so blasé about it.  Put down that pencil, I’m carrying you back to your room.’

 

I scowled and tossed the pencil at him.  It landed on the coffee table and rolled uselessly off.  ‘If you’re so stroppy about it I can walk there, myself.’

 

‘No, you can’t,’ he said, ‘you’re ankle’s practically a crime scene.’

 

‘I could scoot across the floor on my bottom.’

 

‘Then I’d take pictures and send them to Donovan.’

 

I narrowed my eyes like a predatory cat, which I basically am, if you think about it.  ‘You _wouldn’t_.’

 

‘I would.  Arms,’ said John, and I scowled at him and put my arms round his neck, secretly revelling in his embrace as he hauled me back to my room.  I think my toes were brushing the floor, as John is so short.  Before he dumped me unceremoniously into bed, I may have smelled his hair a bit.

 

 **9:56am**

But not in a creepy way.  In a _romantic_ way.  It didn’t smell romantic, though, just like regular hair.

 

 **9:58am**

Not that I was expecting anything different; that would be silly.  John’s hair smells of bottom-shelf shampoo and London miasma and scalp oil and, well, hair-smell.  Nothing unusual or impressive.  No product, despite what John likes to believe.

 

 **10:01am**

I wonder how John would look with product in his hair?  Like a member of Take That, probably.

 

 **10:13am**

Not that I’d mind.

 

 **10:20am**

John is on the phone in the other room.  If he is speaking to Sarah I shall have to send out funeral announcements, as he will be dead to me.

 

 **10:27am**

I had started dejectedly colouring in the margins of note cards with a black felt-tip when I realised that John was speaking to Mycroft.

 

Why is he speaking to Mycroft?

 

I think I will shout for him and see.

 

 **10:35am**

I shouted, ‘JOHN, I NEED YOU,’ which was completely true, if not in the way my tone implied.

 

There was a sound like a herd of rather short, ex-military jumpered elephants charging across the hall and then my door popped open.

 

‘What?’ said John, his phone still against his ear.

 

‘Why are you speaking to Mycroft?’

 

He spluttered a bit.  He’s _so precious_.  ‘God, why does it matter?’

 

His rhetoric amused me, so I decided to play along.  ‘Is there a God?’

 

‘Shut up.’

 

‘Put Mycroft on speaker.’

 

‘No.’

 

‘John, _really_ , I’m injured.  You’re supposed to bend to my will and pamper me.’

 

‘ _No_ , damn it.’  And he turned to go, but after he shut the door behind him he opened it again and stuck his head round it.  ‘Was there anything you actually needed, water or something?’

 

‘Only your utmost love and devotion,’ I said pointedly.  I made my eyes very big.

 

‘Oh, if that’s all,’ he said, and shut the door again.

 

I feel that in the grand scheme of things this petty slight will fall by the wayside once John is begging me to take him in my arms and ravish him senseless.

 

 **11:09am**

I have decided to kidnap Mr Mugsy and hold him for ransom.  Now all I have to do is get up the stairs.

 

 **11:20am**

I am updating from my phone, as I am stranded in the hall.  John is in the kitchen making my unbearably enormous lunch (possibly an entire sandwich!), so he doesn’t know I’m out here.

 

I got here by crawling on my elbows and pretending I was John on the battlefield.  I even made finger-guns.  But then I banged my elbow on the skirting board so then I had to start dragging myself along the floor by employing doorframes and the legs of furniture as handholds.  I almost upset the little table but steadied it just in time, which pretty much made me feel like a superhero.

 

 **11:35am**

I am scooting up the stairs one at a time on my bottom.  I banged my ankle a couple of times on the first few steps, but then I got the hang of it and am now holding my leg aloft by gripping it behind the knee joint.  I am typing with my free hand and pushing up with my good foot, and the going is rather easy.  Any moment now I will be at the top of the stairs, and I will grab Mr Mugsy from his hidey-hole under John’s bed.  As soon as I get back to my room I can start clipping letters out of magazines and pasting them threateningly onto a card.

 

 **11:41am**

There appears to be a hole in the inseam of my pyjama trousers.

 

 **11:47am**

I have discovered that my cock fits through the hole rather nicely.

 

 **11:49am**

This would be very convenient if I had two cocks.  One could go through the front bit, and the other could go through this hole.

 

 **11:52am**

I wonder if John could fit two cocks in his mouth at once?  I quite fancy he could.  Mine is not exceptionally large so one assumes that a second one would be about the same, and I’ve seen John going at a sandwich and he practically unhinges his jaw like a python and wraps himself round it.

 

 **11:55am**

This reminds me of that one piece of fan art that showed up on my forum, where Mycroft is eating me.

 

I don’t really know what to think.

 

 **12:04pm**

Mrs Hudson just came up the main stairs and saw me sitting halfway up the stairs to John’s bedroom, one leg held in the air, my phone in my other hand, with my cock hanging out of the hole in my trousers.

 

‘IT’S AN EXPERIMENT,’ I said pre-emptively.  This usually helps.

 

‘Oh, don’t mind me, dear, I’ll only be a moment,’ she said, and started climbing the stairs I was on, ‘only I’ve got to check and see if John’s radiator is working again, I’ve just had a man in repairing the pipes downstairs.’

 

She is wearing a sort of Edwardian high-collared purple affair today, and black lace fingerless gloves.  I haven’t seen her Edgar Allan Poe cameo brooch in a while, come to think of it.  Perhaps she lost it at her Vampire Social last week.

 

‘While you’re up there,’ I said to her, having one of my countless brilliant flashes, ‘could you fetch me John’s bear?’

 

‘Has he got a bear?’ said Mrs Hudson.

 

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘a small, hangdog individual with one eye and a floppy neck.’

 

‘How sweet!  I ought to knit it a wee jumper.’

 

‘John would no doubt like that.’

 

‘Maybe a little hat.’

 

‘But of course.’

 

‘And ickle socks.  By the way, dear, you might want to put that away,’ she gestured in a politely vague way to my dangling apparatus, ‘it’s a bit chilly in here, you want to avoid shrinkage.’

 

Honestly, it’s like living in a madhouse.  ‘Yes, Mrs Hudson, thank you.’

 

‘Or, if you prefer to have it out, I could knit it a sock.’

 

‘What a lovely thought.’

 

‘Or sort of spats, so there are buttons up the side and the end pokes out for when you have to use it.’

 

‘I will seriously think about it.’

 

‘I could show you some patterns.’

 

‘That would be lovely, but not just now.’

 

‘Whatever you like, dear.’

 

She really is as mad as a mad thing on loony tablets.

 

 **12:10pm**

I have the bear!  Ha!  I am a genius.  This will teach John to brush me off!

 

Now all I have to do is get back down the stairs.

 

 **12:38pm**

In an attempt to do a tuck-and-roll sort of manoeuvre, I fell down the stairs just as Lestrade was coming up to the landing.  So I was curled into a sort of foetal position with my phone held between my lips, and my cock still out.

 

‘Sorry if you’re busy,’ said Lestrade, his eyebrows doing that eyebrow-y thing that he does when he’s trying not to laugh, damn him, ‘but I’ve ruined my ID in the wash and I know you’ve got extras, and since it’s my day off I thought I’d stop by.’

 

I scowled at him.  ‘In my desk, second drawer on the right.’

 

‘Want some help?’

 

I scowled at him a second time.  I think this illustrated my opinion of him and his beastly help.

 

 **12:50pm**

John came out of the kitchen with a sandwich and a bowl of soup for me just as Lestrade was setting me down from a fireman’s lift.  Luckily I had thought to put my cock away before he picked me up, otherwise it might have got in his ear.  Also I hid Mr Mugsy in my dressing gown pocket.  He has created a rather suspicious bulge but as I have a pair of binoculars in the other pocket it is not so suspicious as it would otherwise be.

 

‘I’m not even going to ask,’ said John.

 

‘I have fallen painfully down the stairs,’ I announced, hoping to win his sympathy and perhaps an apology for the heartless rejection I received earlier.  ‘Luckily, Lestrade arrived on his noble steed and came to my rescue like a true gentleman.’

 

‘Er, thanks,’ said Lestrade.  He can be kind of adorable sometimes.

 

‘Oh, good,’ said John, setting the heaping dishes onto the coffee table, which practically groaned under the onslaught, ‘now you can eat your lunch.’

 

‘I couldn’t possibly finish all that!’ I protested, quite reasonably, I feel.

 

‘You’ve got all day,’ John quipped, putting on his coat, ‘I’m going out.  If you need anything, Mrs Hudson is home.’

 

And then he buggered off.

 

 **1:15pm**

Lestrade is eating my soup for me, as he owes me about eight hundred favours.  I have managed three bites of my sandwich and feel that I may burst.

 

A moment ago Lestrade asked, ‘Why did you roll down the stairs with your cock out?’

 

I peered at him archly.  ‘Experiment,’ I said.  ‘Also I was kidnapping Mr Mugsy.’

 

‘Who’s that?’ he said.  I showed him.  He said, ‘I think that’s about the most sickeningly cute thing I have ever seen.’

 

I scoffed.  ‘This bear is clearly a criminal.  Just look at his bearing!’

 

‘Ha,’ said Lestrade.

 

‘I meant his posture.  And look, he’s missing an eye.’

 

‘That means nothing.’

 

‘It does if you knew that he lost it while assassinating a key government figure.’

 

‘Is that so?’

 

‘Quite.  He’s on the run.’

 

Lestrade smirked.  ‘Well, we’ve got him now.  Perhaps I ought to take him in.’

 

‘But it’s your day off,’ I said.

 

‘I could always drop in.’

 

And then we cackled like fiends.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fate of John's bear, lots of talk of marriage (civil partnership, technically), Sherlock reveals the truth about his orientation, a guest appearance by Stamford; Lestrade's, Mycroft's and Mrs Hudson's ideas of constructive relationship advice.

**Thursday, 17 February 2011**

 **10:30am**

 **In the front room**

 **Nicotine patches today: 4 (decent)**

It has been hard to stand firm, but I have gone almost a whole month without letting slip to John to whence and by whom his bear was kidnapped.  We have had three rollicking cases since my last entry (which explains the absence of my glittering wit on the friends lists of no doubt countless enamoured sods), and on top of that Lestrade and I have been leaving John cryptic clues at every opportunity.  I feel this has been an excellent bonding experience for the two of us, and now I can almost listen to Lestrade try to reason aloud without cringing at the flagrantly uninformed leaps his logic so often takes.  It’s been a fortnight since he last threatened to have me hauled in for questioning.  I may even be growing fond of him.

 

Despite our practically ceaseless cross-metropolis crime-fighting adventures, John is rather churlish.  I am beginning to think that it is his default setting.  He says it is because he is not sleeping well, which, though unspoken, I have attributed to the absence of Mr Mugsy.  This morning in a fit of good spirits and perhaps not a little sexual ambition I said to him, in a casual manner, ‘John, if you need something to cuddle you can always come downstairs,’ but he acted as though he hadn’t heard and continued brushing his teeth aggressively.  He’s going to wear out his toothbrush at this rate, as whenever I take a stab at saying something flirtatious and uplifting while he is using it, he starts to treat the poor thing more as a weapon or power tool rather than the fragile, plastic-bodied hygienic aid that it is.

 

At times I utterly fail to understand the man.

 

 **10:47am**

I am a bit restless today.  I am thinking of going out.

 

 **2:21pm**

 **In a cab, on the way home in post-lunch traffic, updating from my mobile**

I went round to Barts to check on my current (rather disappointing) experiment and ended up running into Stamford before I could get to the lab.

 

‘Hello!’ he said in his oppressively cheerful manner.  ‘How’s life, then?  Haven’t seen you in a while, been wondering what you’ve been up to.’

 

I silently mulled over my recent doings, which I managed to boil down to the monosyllable, ‘Things.’

 

‘Oh, ah,’ said Stamford.  ‘Quite right, as have I.  Care for some lunch?  I was about to pop round that bistro down the way.  Of course you won’t eat, but I’d enjoy the company.’

 

Damn peer pressure to the depths of hell, but I agreed.

 

‘Molly’s been mooning over you something fierce,’ Stamford said as we left the building.

 

‘No surprises there,’ I said, remembering the microbial tea cosy.

 

He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.  ‘She’s been talking about going round your place for a bit of a chat.’

 

Scenes of horror flashed before my eyes: Molly standing at the door, her aura of awkwardness permeating the entire street, Mrs Hudson answering her knock and being delightfully surprised to see a female visitor who wasn’t part of the police force, the rapid degeneration of their pleasantries into talk of knitting (toward which they are both severely afflicted with fondness) , Mrs Hudson showing Molly her progress on the cock-spats she was knitting for me, conversation wending its way into the realm of Too Much Information About My Cock And Its Escapades On The Stairs...

 

She had to be stopped.

 

‘Tell her I’m gay,’ I said.

 

Stamford choked a little over his tea.  ‘Sorry?’

 

‘Gay,’ I repeated.  ‘Did I stutter?  G-A-Y.  Homosexual.  Bent.  Inverted.  Honestly, must I resort to unsavoury comparisons to bandits?’

 

‘Er, no,’ Stamford said, and he looked like he was fighting a grin, the bastard.  ‘No, I’ve quite got the picture.’

 

‘Good.’

 

I sat in silence as he ate his Panini.

 

‘Only,’ he said after a tedious ten minutes of food consumption—honestly, how can people stand to do that more than once a week?  Positively _revolting_ practise.  ‘Only I thought you were... you know.’

 

I gave him my best blank stare.  ‘I beg your pardon?’

 

‘Asexual.’

 

I almost laughed.  ‘God, no.  What gave you that impression?’

 

‘You just never struck me as the type to be, well, _interested_ , I guess you could say.’

 

‘Sex to me, though far more useful, is like religion is to some people,’ I explained, causing a passing waiter to glance over his shoulder at us with a quizzical expression.  ‘It’s something I endeavour to experience at the very least on the weekends, if not as often as possible.  To continue the metaphor, I bow my head in devotion, the rod and the staff do comfort me, I cry entreaties to heaven when the situation calls for it, I prostrate myself before—,’

 

‘Yes, that’s all well and good, but it won’t put Molly off in the slightest,’ Stamford noted.  ‘If anything, she’ll be more interested.  Remember her last boyfriend, that bloke from IT?  Flaming as an effigy on Bonfire Night, but did she notice?’

 

‘Only after I pointed it out,’ I muttered.

 

 ‘Yes, and did she care?  Not a whit.  If anything, it made her more determined to win his affection.’

 

I knew he was right, being well-aware of Molly’s propensity for slash fanfiction, but nonetheless I peered at him over the table as he paid for his meal and gave him a sceptical look.  ‘What are you saying?’

 

‘I’m saying you’re in for it, laddie.  Might as well make the best of it.’

 

I pondered this for a time.  ‘What if I gave myself some debilitating disease?’

 

‘Then she’d want to rescue you.’

 

‘Became an outlaw?’

 

‘That’s even more romance-novel material than being on your deathbed.’

 

‘Damn it, what _would_ put her off?  You work with her most, you know her better than I do.’

 

Stamford hummed thoughtfully as he downed the last of his tea.  ‘Her parents divorced after multiple affairs.  She’s mentioned that she finds nothing more deplorable than someone who would cheat on their spouse.’

 

That’s when I got the idea.

 

 **3:02pm**

When I got home, John was in the kitchen making toast.  Him and his toast-eating at inappropriate times of day!  It’s not even tea yet.  This sort of behaviour needs to be checked before it spreads.  Any day now he will be eating toast at every meal, Parliament will collapse and what’s left of the Empire will crumble before our very eyes.

 

‘John,’ I said, being as matey as possible and making my eyes very big, ‘would you marry me?’

 

He didn’t even look up from the marmalade to answer.  ‘Hypothetically?’  He shrugged.  ‘I haven’t a clue.  What’s the scenario?’

 

‘I’m being sexually pursued by an emotionally unstable morgue attendant with a knitting fetish.’

 

He licked marmalade gorgeously off the back of the spoon before putting it in the sink.  It’s almost as if he doesn’t realise he’s taunting me!  ‘Have you been watching Jeremy Kyle again?’

 

‘Ha.’

 

‘But seriously, what’s this about?  Are you conducting a social experiment?  If so, I’d suggest taking the question to your forum, I’m sure loads of people on there would marry you.  Possibly nigh unto half of 4chan.’

 

‘4chan isn’t at risk of being told about my cock-spats by Mrs Hudson.’

 

John smirked.  ‘No, as I’m sure they’ve already come up with it, themselves.’

 

I scowled at him from the doorway.  ‘Fine, treat this lightly.  But when I am cornered on the stairs by a mad person—,’

 

‘That usually happens at least twice a week,’ John noted.

 

‘—then I will hold you morally responsible.’

 

‘That’s fine,’ he said.  ‘I think my morals can handle it.’

 

Honestly, sometimes I think his knitted brain has caught on something and unravelled entirely.

 

 **5:17pm**

 **In my room**

I texted Lestrade, as he’s one of the only mostly-straight men that I personally know who is neither in prison nor dead, nor plotting my grisly demise.

 

 _Having girl trouble.  Reply. –SH_

He responded with the following:  _Do screaming benders have girl problems? –L_

I took offense at this.  _Perhaps you’re right; you aren’t really the person I should be asking for advice.  Bottoms up! –SH_

He took half an hour to reply.  _That was uncalled for.  It’s been five years. –L_

 _Time heals etc.  Find me someone to marry ASAP, as John will not cooperate. –SH_

 _You’re lucky this is a slow day. –L_

 _Ah, so unless someone gets murdered I have your full attention.  Excellent. –SH_

 _What the hell do you want to get married for? –L_

 _Mind your grammar. –SH_

 _Fuck off or answer my question. -L_

 _Deter madwoman’s cocklust with matrimonial revenge. –SH_

 _Been watching Jeremy Kyle again? –L_

 _WHY IS THAT EVERYONE’S ASSUMPTION? –SH_

 _Can’t you just get some rent boy to do it? –L_

 _Not really my area anymore.  Know any good rent boys these days? –SH_

 _No, and I wish you’d shut up about that. –L_

 _Terribly sorry, first impressions carry a lot of weight with me. –SH_

 _What about your network of homeless spies? –L_

 _You mean my eager bums? –SH_

 _Shut up.  Just... shut up. –L_

 _Fine, but if you abandon me in my hour of need I have nowhere else to turn! -SH_

 _Why don’t you ask your brother? –L_

 _I doubt he’d accept my proposal.  Besides, isn’t that illegal? –SH_

 _No, idiot, ask your brother if he knows anyone you could marry. –L_

 _And end up stuck with some horrid specimen of his choosing?  Hardly! –SH_

 _You’re one picky son of a bitch. –L_

 _So go cry about it.  Last time I ever come to you for help! –SH_

 _All right.  Then I’ll have John’s bear seen home safely tomorrow morning. –L_

 _NO THAT WOULD RUIN MY INTRICATE PLANS! –SH_

That’s when he stopped replying to my texts.  Damn him to pieces, why does he have to make things so difficult?

 

 **6:00pm**

I broke down and called Mycroft.

 

‘Mycroft,’ I said, ‘I need to get married.’

 

‘Aren’t you already, by Jove?’ he said, mockery practically oozing out of the earpiece of the phone.

 

‘John has spurned my advances, and if I don’t act quickly, that mad girl from Barts is going to find out about my cock spats and will keep forcing herself at me until I explode from mortification and terror.’

 

‘You won’t explode.’

 

‘I will, in fact.’

 

‘Rubbish.  And what the blazes are cock spats?’

 

‘They are a thing that exists.  Look, if you are going to deny me this paltry favour in my hour of need I will know what to say at your funeral.’

 

‘If you explode, you won’t be speaking at my funeral, or anyone’s.  Especially not while wearing some kind of spats that go on your cock, if I have anything to say about it.’

 

‘I will say that you were a rotten old cad and never did anything for anyone.  And no, you will not have anything to say about my choice of garb because you will be DEAD.’

 

He made a dismissive, almost Gallic noise.  ‘I’ve had worse.’

 

‘Damn it, Mycroft, think of all the myriad selfless favours I have done you, even just recently.’

 

There was a pause.  ‘No, sorry, nothing’s coming to me.’

 

‘What about the Hungarian smugglers?’

 

‘I could have easily sorted that out myself, I just wanted to give you something to do.’

 

‘What about that one-eyed assassin who took a chunk out of my arm?’

 

‘Merely to stroke your ego.’

 

‘What about that American shipping magnate with the six daughters?’

 

‘Just for a laugh, really.’

 

I scowled very hard down the phone.  I like to think he could hear it.  ‘I really do despise you, even to the very core of my being.’

 

‘Love you, too, baby brother,’ he trilled.  ‘Oh, and I suggest talking to your landlady, she’s bound to know plenty of eligible lads.’  And then he rang off.

 

I sometimes wonder how he and I could have sprung from the same loins.  He is clearly distilled evil and wretchedness, and I of course am no such thing.

 

 **6:42pm**

Completely by my own free will and cleverness I decided to consult Mrs Hudson.

 

‘I hear Mrs Turner’s married ones are looking for a third,’ she said.

 

‘No,’ I told her firmly, ‘that is not helpful, as they are already married.  I need someone single whom I can marry immediately.’

 

‘Ooh, that’s tricky,’ she said, gazing into the middle distance with a slight frown, her hands still knitting away, regardless, in her lap.  On the ends of her knitting needles hung something that looked about the size and shape of a windsock, and I began to wonder whether she had that high of an opinion of my endowments.

 

‘Haven’t you got a son somewhere?’ I suggested.

 

‘Oh, yes, bless him.’

 

‘Whereabouts?’

 

‘Dartmoor.’

 

I swear, sometimes I wonder if anyone related to Mrs Hudson is free of criminal charges.

 

‘That won’t do.  What about nephews?’

 

‘Oh, no, haven’t got any of those.  A niece, yes, but I know you wouldn’t be interested.’

 

‘Well spotted.’

 

She switched on her characteristic expression of motherly concern.  ‘What about John, dear?  Is he cross with you?  You ought not to do anything rash—the two of you always make up.’

 

‘He is always cross with me,’ I said, and I think I am right in saying that my tone was clipped.

 

‘Not always, love,’ Mrs Hudson said, patting my arm and somehow continuing to knit one-handed.  ‘I see the way he looks at you.’

 

I snorted derisively, breathed the wrong way, and launched into a coughing fit.  Mrs Hudson patted me on the back and was at the point of stroking my hair when I managed to pull myself out of it and regain my usual regal posture.  ‘He does not look at me any particular way,’ I said, scowling.

 

‘You’re just sore with him,’ she said, handing me a biscuit.  I took it ruefully.  ‘You’ll make up soon, you always do.  I’d bet you anything that by this time tomorrow you’ll be shagging like rabb—,’

 

‘I must be going,’ I said, getting to my feet, my mouth still full of biscuit.  In my despondency I even considered grabbing another one, but sanity intervened.

 

 **10:30pm**

As soon as I stood up, there was a knock at the door.  I fought the urge to dive under Mrs Hudson’s sofa and curl in upon myself like a pill bug.  Believe me, the urge was a powerful one.

 

‘I’ll get it, dear,’ said Mrs Hudson, ‘you just sit back and try to cheer up.’  As she went out into the front hall she called over her shoulder, ‘Have another biscuit!’

 

But I resisted the biscuits’ siren song.  I had their number now.

 

Moments later, after some muffled talk from the hall, Mrs Hudson called, ‘Friends to see you, dear!’

 

I groaned hopelessly but got to my feet and dragged myself to the door.  I felt like a French aristocrat being led to the tumbrel.

 

Lestrade and Molly stood on the mat, the former holding Mr Mugsy, the latter looking earnest in a strained, anxious-swot-at-exam-time way.

 

‘I decided I couldn’t wait to return him,’ Lestrade said, without even a Hail, Pilgrim! or view-halloo.  He thrust John’s bear into my arms and smirked wickedly at me.  He joyfully knew he was making my life hell, and it showed.

 

Meanwhile, Molly held her breath, worked her lower lip between her teeth and looked back and forth between us like someone watching Wimbledon on fast-forward.

 

And then I had one of my brilliant flashes.

 

‘Thank you, darling,’ I said, and adoring doves in those twee pastoral paintings one finds in country houses could not have cooed more sweetly.  ‘I missed him awfully.’

 

And with calculated precision I swept down on Lestrade and snogged him within an inch of his life.  In the background I heard Molly make a sound like a popped balloon as her lip shot out from between her teeth and she let her breath out all at once, but I paid her no heed.  I pressed on, for the sake of verisimilitude, until I found myself getting a bit lightheaded, at which point I pulled back and saw the dazed look on Lestrade’s face.  This look transformed into confusion, then happiness, then consternation, the back to dazed in the span of about three seconds.

 

‘Oh, how remiss of me,’ I said pointedly, turning to Molly with a catlike grin, ‘I almost forgot, have you met my husband?’

 

Molly opened and closed her mouth several times in quick succession, doing an admirable impression of a koi fish.  ‘Husband?’ she finally said, glancing at Mrs Hudson as if for confirmation of the horrible truth.

 

‘Yes!’ I said happily, my considerable theatrical talents passing off the lie with flying colours.  ‘We signed the documents just last week for civil partnership.’

 

‘Sorry, what?’ said John from the top of the stairs.

 

I spun round like one of those carnival rides with names like Tilt-o-Hurl or perhaps Whirligig of Death.  ‘Oh!  John, I didn’t know you were in.’

 

‘Of course you did, I was here twenty minutes ago when you were upstairs.’

 

‘What I meant to say was I thought you had gone out.’

 

‘No, sorry.  Still here.’

 

Molly was now looking between John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and myself and seemed at risk for serious whiplash.

 

‘We, ah, we were just talking, dear,’ Mrs Hudson said, trying her best to salvage the situation and not burst my delicate bubble of deception.  She had heard descriptions of Molly before; she had seen that hideous tea cosy; she knew what I was up against.  It was imperative that she follow my lead.

 

John raised a quizzical brow.  ‘Er, sorry, but what are you doing with my bear?’

 

‘Found him in Mrs Hudson’s washing basket,’ I said.  ‘Apparently he got mixed up in your linens for washing and she simply forgot to return him.’

 

Molly now looked between John and Mr Mugsy, occasionally throwing in a confused look at me and Lestrade.  Mrs Hudson, luckily, was for the moment left out of the skittle-eyed scrutiny.

 

John looked incredulous.  ‘For a month?’

 

‘You know,’ Mrs Hudson chimed in, ‘I’m getting on in years, love, my memory’s not what it used to be.  I do hope I haven’t caused you any trouble.’

 

‘Oh, no trouble at all,’ said John, and his expression told me clearly that he was onto at least one or two of my devious schemes and he wanted no part in them.  ‘I’ll just come down and fetch him.’

 

He descended the stairs.  To me, in my somewhat fevered mind, it seemed to take hours.  It was like watching someone attempt to run along the bottom of a swimming pool while wearing concrete boots and listening to Kylie Minogue remixes.  Excruciating, is what I’m trying to say.

 

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, and Molly’s eye-dancing reached an apex of squiggliness, John looked between me and Lestrade, down at his bear that I still held, and then back up at me.

 

‘I didn’t know we had company coming,’ John said with a steely glint in his eye, before turning to Lestrade, throwing his arms around his neck and I swear Lestrade must have nine lives, because I had just snogged the life out of him and now John was having a go, as well.

 

As this was going on I awkwardly cast around for somewhere to look, mostly because I feared I would wrench them apart with my fingernails if I watched for a moment longer, and my eyes fell on Molly.  She was now clutching Mrs Hudson’s apron like a small girl who has just seen someone mauled by a pack of tigers.

 

‘Come in, dear,’ Mrs Hudson told her, stroking Molly’s hair in her motherly way, ‘I’ll make you some tea, shall I?’

 

When the front hall had emptied of women, John finally stepped back and let Lestrade relocate his senses.

 

‘I think,’ said John, snatching Mr Mugsy from my arms as if I were a vicious madman with a homicidal streak and a distinct bear prejudice, ‘we’re even.’

 

‘Whurrr,’ said Lestrade dizzily, leaning so heavily on the wall it looked as if he were trying to hold it in place.

 

‘See you upstairs,’ John said with a sort of dangerous cheeriness, and bounded back up to our flat.

 

I turned to Lestrade, whose pupils were dilated rather a lot.  I gave him a curt nod.  ‘You will speak of this to no one.’

 

‘Whummm,’ he said.

 

‘Right.  Fine.  Now push off.’

 

‘Nnng,’ he said.

 

‘I’ll hail you a cab, shall I?’

 

‘Muhh,’ he said.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Practical jokes gone mad, Lestrade gettin' some (a lot), eyeballs everywhere, David Bowie, awkward first dates, Mycroft gets an uncomfortable shock, John gets some all-too-comfortable shocks and everyone is a bastard.

**Sunday, 06 March 2011**

 **1:20am (I have been up all night)**

 **In my ~~closet~~ secret lair, plotting Dr. John H. Insufferable Pimhole Watson’s inevitable demise**

 **Nicotine patches today: 7 (fuck it)**

Since the events of my last post, John and I have been embroiled in a mad, passionate, heated, messy and undeniably morally questionable exchange that can only be described as the prank war to end all prank wars.  I say morally questionable because I’m sure that John, who has got to have some morals because he is Essentially a Good Person, has got to be questioning his; whereas if I have any morals somewhere and have forgotten I have them, I am simply flashing those no-good bastards a double-V, as I would much rather be able to upend bowls of porridge on John without my conscience (were I to possess one) gnawing anxiously at my face.

 

Not that I have been so lacking in finesse as to slop porridge on the man outright!  Far from it; I have been a pranking mastermind over these past weeks, and I feel right in saying that to catalogue my riotous successes in my own personal record would not be too self-congratulatory to stand.  I must confess that for awhile we may have been neck and neck, but I feel I have very obviously have emerged the victor in the most rounds due to my cleverness.

 

Here is the prank ranking as it stands today:

 

17 Feb, also known as The First Day of the Holy Prank Crusade: Snogged Lestrade (as I have previously discussed).  John got me back by snogging Lestrade.

 

18 Feb: Re-kidnapped Mr Mugsy and took photos with my phone of him in compromising positions with a plush giraffe I got round the shops, sent photos to John’s phone with captions such as ‘Your bear has been press-ganged into the seedy underworld of plush toy sexual slavery’ and ‘A giraffe’s tongue is forty-five centimetres long.  That is eighteen inches.  Think long and hard about the implications.’  John got me back by texting, ‘He can handle it, I taught Mr Mugsy everything he knows.’

 

19 Feb: Mrs Hudson finished my cock spats today and brought them round before breakfast.  (Why she made a pair of them in the first place, I’ll never know.)  I snuck upstairs and put the spare on John’s cock while he was still sleeping.  John got me back by coming down to breakfast with nothing on but the cock spat.  Also he wrote Mrs Hudson and very pleasant note thanking her for ‘our matching set’ and signed it with ‘Your boys upstairs’ and little hearts.  (Note: Apparently John has sparkle pens.  I do not know why he has them.  Perhaps they were a gift from the mouse mistress?)

 

20 Feb: Got a bunch of eyeballs from Barts and lined them up on the inside ledge of the tub so John would see them when he opened the curtain to have his shower.  Also I wrote ‘I’VE GOT MY EYE ON YOU’ and drew a smiley face in pigs’ blood on the shower wall.  John got me back by fashioning a sort of crossbow out of a stapler and elastic bands, using it to shoot the eyeballs at my head while he dove behind the furniture and crawled along on his elbows like a sniper.

 

21 Feb: Molly was round having tea with Mrs Hudson (they have struck up one of those effervescent, knitting-heavy friendships that mad women sometimes do) and John went downstairs and asked the two of them if they’d seen me slinking about anywhere, as I had been very naughty and needed a spanking.  I got him back by going downstairs immediately after him and apologising to Molly and Mrs Hudson, saying that silly old John had decided it was Opposite Day, and that I had actually been chasing after _him_ for a quarter of an hour, with a hairbrush, trying to get a clear shot at his bottom.  I think Molly may have permanently overstretched her eyelids, making the face that she did.  Mrs Hudson just tutted and said, ‘Boys will be boys, won’t they, dear?’

 

22 Feb: I whipped up some non-toxic slime and put it in John’s shampoo, which tinted his hair a sort of sickly orange and would not wash out.  John got me back at tea time when I had just taken a large swallow of the tea he had prepared me and he said, ‘Oh, did you say two sugars?  I thought you said two tablespoons of semen.’

 

23 Feb: Ran a mild electrical current through the desk chair so when John sat down in it he would get zapped.  John got me back by apparently having rather a thing for electro-stimulation.  He squirmed and said—and by the way I felt his tone was very sardonic and not at all serious—‘Ooh, _damn,_ Sherlock, shock me again.’

 

24 Feb: John got very chatty in a sort of chatting-up way with Lestrade right after we wrapped up a case, and I got jealous so I decided to embarrass John a bit.  So I walked past the two of them on the way out of Lestrade’s office and said quite clearly so Lestrade could hear, ‘This is by the bye, but I suck cock much better than John does.  Food for thought.’  John got me back by _actually_ sucking Lestrade’s cock.  He came back to the flat four hours after I had left the station, with a very sexy video snippet on his phone for proof, and said, ‘Now you have to demonstrate, if you want him to believe you.  And trust me, I’m fierce competition.’

 

25 Feb: Took all of John’s clothes out of his wardrobe while he was sleeping and hid them, and left a ransom note with pasted letters that said, ‘IF YOU EVER WANT TO SEE YOUR CLOTHES AGAIN, YOU MUST BE SHERLOCK’S HAREM BOY FOR THE DAY.’  John got me back by agreeing to the terms, but only speaking in Arabic for the rest of the day.  I do not, as a rule, speak Arabic.  I had to use Google Translate every time he answered my commands with a snappy retort.  I think John must have been using some kind of regional dialect, however, because I’m pretty certain that ‘You have not the seeds of the shy and humble mustard plant’ has a sort of euphemistic feel to it, and ‘Cats make little wind for you when you malinger’ is just nonsense.

 

26 Feb: John woke me up hideously early by playing my David Bowie records in the living room and singing badly along with them.  I would not have objected entirely to this, because not everyone is blessed with a mellifluous and haunting baritone such as mine and cannot be faulted for their lack of musical gifts, but he was getting the words wrong.  ON PURPOSE.  Honestly, how could someone not know the words to ‘Hallo Spaceboy’?

 

I got him back by sending my forum-members, most of whom are from 4chan anyway, to wallpaper his blog with sparkling animated penises.  John got me back almost immediately by sending the same people back over to hack my blog layout and make the Leekspin song auto-play in the background.

 

I got him back again by asking Mrs Hudson to proofread John’s most recent blog post, and afterwards she said to John (hilariously), ‘I know you’re fond of cocks, dear, but I think your new background image is a trifle distracting.’  John got me back by saying it was my idea (which was true, I’ll grant him that).

 

I got him back by printing out and piecing together a poster-sized version of that MS Paint drawing of John fucking a jumper and mounted it, in a tasteful frame, over the mantelpiece in the living room.  He got me back by saying it added a touch of class that the room had otherwise lacked.

 

27 Feb: Had a minor and not very diverting case today.  Lestrade kept giving me googly-eyes throughout; John kept nudging Lestrade suggestively with his elbow and saying things like, ‘Sherlock’s right, you know, he’s scads better than I am.  He ought to prove it to you.’  Once we’d caught the safe-breaker and there was nothing better to do I got frustrated, hauled Lestrade off into a coat closet and sucked his cock.  I made him take a video clip on my phone as proof.  Lestrade said (more like whimpered) when I was through with him, ‘I can’t honestly say that one of you better than the other,’ and I said, ‘I will just pretend that you did.’  I sent John the video clip.

 

John got me back by inviting Lestrade to our flat for dinner.  We ordered take-away because neither of us can really cook worth a damn except for eggs and tomato-y beans and oven chips, so the three of us sat around in the living room eating Thai and having sort of strained conversation about the case we had just finished.  It was hideously awkward, and John clearly relished every second of it.

 

28 Feb: John found a note from Lestrade, that Lestrade had apparently put there the previous night before he left, under a half-finished take-away carton of lentils on the table.  It read, _I’m off-duty these next two days if either of you need company or anything. –Greg_

 

I looked at John and I said, ‘Hmm,’ and he looked at me and he said, ‘Hmm,’ as well, only a bit longer.  Not to be out-noised, I said, ‘Hmmmmm,’ back at him, and he raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm,’ at me.  So I said, ‘Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,’ at him, and he said, ‘Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,’ at me, and I said, ‘Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,’ right back in his smug little face, and then I fell down, because that had taken more air that I had in me at the time.

 

Instantly when I fell down John dropped to his knees beside me to see if I was all right, and I poked him in the tummy with my elbow.  He responded by growling and then blowing a short, sharp puff of air in my ear.  I retaliated by grabbing his nose and twisting it slightly before letting go, while making a sort of submarine ‘awooga’ sound, to make clear the fact that I found him ridiculous.  He put his forearm against the base of my throat and held it there firmly, and stars started popping against my eyes.  I forced him off me and we rolled around a bit before I pinned him to the floor.  I accidentally knocked his head against the leg of the sofa, but I managed to manoeuvre his head under the edge of the coffee table so he couldn’t sit up without banging his face.  Then I straddled his thighs so he couldn’t throw me off.  ‘Ha!’ I said.  ‘Ha!’ he said back, because his arms were still basically free as I had been so concerned with his thighs, and with impeccable aim he located my nipples (in one go!) through both my dressing gown and pyjama shirt, took hold of them and pinched hard.

 

I would be stretching the truth a bit if I said my eyes didn’t flutter a little when he did that.

 

I got off of his legs and sat on the sofa, moodily opened my computer and started typing gibberish in a text file so he would think I had been struck with an idea and was too busy to wrestle with him any longer.  He scooted out from under the edge of the table, stood up and leaned over my lap to see what I was writing.

 

‘You appear to be typing rubbish,’ he said.

 

‘Fuck off,’ I said.

 

I believe I can say that I won that round.

 

01 March: Mycroft came by the flat, unannounced, to try and convince me to help him with some tedious errand, I don’t even know, I wasn’t paying attention.  John came out of the kitchen just after Mycroft arrived, rumpled my hair (!!!) and said, ‘Did you say you wanted sugar in your tea, darling?’

 

Mycroft observed him with a wild surmise and then smirked at me, damn him.  ‘Well, aren’t you two the most precious little boyfriends I’ve ever seen?’

 

I said to him, ‘We are not boyfriends, this is just a ploy.’

 

Mycroft said, ‘A ploy accomplishing what, precisely?’

 

‘He is trying to unnerve me,’ I said.

 

‘I’m doing no such thing!’ said John with an utterly unconvincing angelic smile.

 

‘Don’t listen to him, Mycroft, it’s all lies,’ I said.  ‘It’s an evil scheme.’

 

‘I hardly think,’ said Mycroft, ‘that John is capable of concocting evil schemes.’

 

‘Oh, yes he is.’

 

‘Besides, what would he be scheming evilly to do?’

 

‘Have it off with both of the Holmeses,’ said John, giving Mycroft slinky sex-eyes.

 

Mycroft laughed suddenly and said, ‘I beg your pardon?’

 

‘Oh, yes,’ said John, ‘I’m very ambitious.’

 

I said to my brother, ‘You really ought to push on before he throws himself at you.  He is very strong, after all.  I couldn’t walk for days.’

 

And after that Mycroft sort of fled the scene, as it were, and John brought in the tea on a tray.

 

‘He’s much better off having disturbing relations with Moriarty anyway,’ I said.

 

John said, ‘Let’s keep that in the sanctity of your brain, shall we?’

 

I told him, ‘The internet gave me the idea in the first place,’ and I took a hearty drink of my tea.

 

‘Oh, did you say you wanted _sugar_?’ said John, narrowing his eyes wickedly over the rim of his own cup.

 

I got him back later by sneaking up on him in the shower, tearing back the curtain, lunging with an animal cry, biting his chin and then running away.  I had been aiming for his neck, but he turned because he was startled, and he is really very short so I misjudged the distance.  John had teeth marks on his face for two days and it was hilarious.

 

02 March: Today I shuffled about on the rugs in my socks to build up static and then zapped John with my fingers.  He got me back by having a noisy wank in the living room and wantonly shouting my name while I was on the phone with Mycroft.

 

Not really up to our established lofty standards, but it has been a long couple of weeks.

 

03 March: Sometime in the night John replaced all of the light bulbs in the flat with red-tinted ones, so when I went into the bathroom this morning and switched on the light, it was like conducting my affairs inside of a badly-lit tomato.  I got him back by asking, ‘Are we setting up shop as a brothel now?  Surely you ought to give Lestrade a special discount, seeing as he’s with the Yard.’  By teatime John had given Mrs Hudson all of the red light bulbs back, because apparently they were hers to begin with.  I do not want to know why she has them.  I suppose they go in her bat sconces.

 

04 March: Got a bunch more eyeballs at Barts and adhered them to John’s ceiling while he was sleeping so a few dozen lifeless eyes glaring down at him would be the first thing he saw when he woke up.

 

John said to me when he came down to breakfast, ‘What is your fascination with eyeballs?’

 

I said coldly, ‘I don’t believe I know what you mean.’

 

‘You are always doing things with them and leaving them everywhere.’

 

‘I am not.’

 

‘Have you got an eyeball fetish?’

 

‘What?  No.’

 

‘I think you do.’

 

‘I haven’t,’ I said firmly.

 

John put his face right in front of mine.  ‘Look at my eyeballs,’ he said in a spooky voice like he was trying to hypnotise me.  ‘Do you find anything sexual about my eyeballs?’

 

Well of course I did, because they are John’s, but instead I said, ‘Not an inkling.’

 

‘Are you sure?’ he said.  ‘Look carefully at them.’

 

I did, and I said, ‘No, no sexual thoughts about your eyeballs, John, I’m dreadfully sorry to disappoint you.’

 

‘No, wait,’ said John in an urgent whisper, ‘look just a bit closer.’

 

I leaned closer to him by the few centimetres or so that I could without bumping our noses.  I thought he was going to kiss me.

 

Instead, while I was looking into his eyes, he tipped my glass of milk over into my lap.

 

I got him back by timing things precisely so that he would inevitably walk in on me later, sitting in the bath, which was full of milk, having a furious wank, just to make him wonder whether he had actually been being vindictive by spilling milk on me, or simply fuelling the fire of some long-held dairy perversion.

 

I am not sure whether I won this round or not, because when he walked in on me he said amusedly, ‘So that’s why you always need me to buy milk,’ and laughed.

 

05 March: Got a postcard from Moriarty this morning.  It read, _Having a lovely holiday. Wish you were here, sexy.  Kiss kiss kiss, love you forever! –Jim_

 

John said, ‘Isn’t he still in prison?’

 

I said, ‘He ought to be.’

 

John looked churlishly at the postcard for awhile.  I said to him, ‘At least he is honest about his terribly obvious attraction to me.’

 

John raised an eyebrow.  ‘I thought you shipped him with your brother?’

 

‘Yes, well,’ I said dramatically, making my eyes very big, ‘ours is a love that can never be realised.’

 

‘You’re mental.’

 

‘No, you.’

 

‘We are not seriously having this conversation.’

 

‘Oh, really?’

 

‘Stop spouting meme phrases at me, it’s not even noon yet.’

 

‘It is never too early for amusement.’

 

He snatched the postcard out of my hands, made it into a paper aeroplane, opened the door and tossed it down the stairs into the foyer.

 

I said to him, ‘That was so mature of you.’

 

He said back, ‘It might have had anthrax.’

 

‘That,’ I noted, ‘is a pitiful excuse, because we would already have it all over our hands, and the rest of the post, and Mrs Hudson, and now the foyer.’

 

‘Fine,’ said John, grumbling.

 

‘I notice there is no semen in my tea this morning,’ I said.

 

‘Forgot,’ said John.

 

‘You could add some now, if you feel you must.’

 

He frowned at me.  ‘It defeats the purpose of doing it if you’re actually letting me.’

 

‘Oh,’ I said, smiling sweetly at him.  ‘I thought you were just training me to enjoy it.’

 

That actually made John blush a bit.  I feel that I am still winning.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade can't take it anymore, things get serious, tension is finally (somewhat) resolved, John comes clean and Sherlock completely misses the point.

**Thursday, 10 March 2011**

 **8:14am**

 **Sleeplessly staring at my bedroom ceiling, nursing my aching heart and seriously craving a god damned cigarette**

 **Nicotine patches today: None (quelle horreur!)**

The prank war over the past few days has not been worth recording as it has degenerated into highly personal remarks in front of the police, throwing things at each other and an unprecedented amount of wanking in each other’s rooms.  I shall say that I am still winning and leave it at that.

 

In more interesting news, I got a call from Lestrade at four o’clock this morning.

 

‘You could just text me if there’s a case,’ I said exasperatedly when I picked up.

 

‘I’m not on duty,’ he said.  He was clearly exhausted.

 

‘You sound terrible.  Have you slept?’

 

‘No.’  I heard fabric shuffling on his end of the line.  Most likely blankets.

 

I took a wild stab in the dark.  ‘You’re not _intoxicated_ , are you?’

 

‘Maybe a bit.’

 

Oh, Lord, Lestrade was drunk-dialling me, what next?  I double checked what number he was calling from—good.  At least he was at home and not prowling the metropolis, completely shitfaced and making a fool of himself in public.

 

‘What’s the matter with you?  Why are you calling me?  Do you realise what time it is?  I could have been getting my beauty sleep.  I wasn’t, as it happens, but one must consider these things in such situations.’

 

He groaned a bit desperately, like he hadn’t expected an interrogation.  How silly of him!  ‘God, how do I say this?  I just... I can’t get you out of my head, Sherlock.’

 

I had to start talking immediately to keep that Kylie Minogue song from getting lodged in my brain like a poison dart.  ‘A problem most people have, it seems, upon close association with me.  They find themselves fascinated by my uncommon brilliance and can think of nothing else.  Don’t worry, you are not the first.  In fact—’

 

‘Would you stop rambling about your brilliance for a minute, damn it?’

 

I frowned into the phone.  I like to think that he could hear it.  ‘For a minute, yes,’ I said coldly.

 

Lestrade said, ‘I honestly can’t stop thinking about you.’  He sounded somewhat distressed by this.

 

‘What have I done, precisely, that’s grabbed your attention?  Really, I can’t fathom why you’re so—’

 

‘Are you crazy?’ he said, as he loves to interrupt me.  ‘How can you not notice what you’ve been doing to me?  _Jesus_.’

 

‘What do you mean, what I’ve been doing to you?’

 

He snorted.  ‘So much for your uncommon brilliance.’

 

I am a patient man, but I take offense when people insult my staggering intellect.  ‘I beg your pardon?’ I said, my tone cold and hard like a frozen fish stick, though obviously not covered in breadcrumbs.

 

‘Sherlock,’ he said, ‘you’ve been teasing me for weeks now.  _Weeks_ ,’ he dragged out the word for emphasis, ‘of you jerking my chain, touching me at random times, dragging me into closets and clawing my clothes off, and I’ve had to keep a straight face while working with you, and working with John, all while the two of you are using me as a pawn in... in some kind of twisted gay sex competition, and you ask me to beg your pardon?  Damn it, I’m not even gay, Sherlock, or at least I didn’t think that I was until you two started being all over me like glitter on glam rock and sucking me off during work hours.’

 

‘Er,’ I said.  I did not think that anyone could pretend to straightness while casually employing similes of that nature, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

 

‘I keep having daydreams about you, and about John.  I go into the office and it’s like a god damned porno playing in my brain.  And whenever I try to get your attention to tell you to lay off distracting me when we’re out on a case, you ignore me.  Not only that but you act like everything is completely normal!’

 

I hesitated on the point of asking if he couldn’t read my p-p-p-poker face, but I figured it wouldn’t go over well.

 

‘What the merciful fuck is going on with you, Sherlock?  I can’t stand this anymore, not knowing.  Do you want me or don’t you?’

 

I found myself momentarily unable to speak.  I mean to say, I hadn’t expected this.  To be perfectly honest I hadn’t thought that Lestrade would care.  I mean, we’ve known each other for five years.  We may or may not have had a thing when we first met.  A torrid, raunchy thing that we carried on with wild, heedless abandon and a considerable amount of drugs, certainly, but it hadn’t been serious at any point.  We parted on good terms and besides, we know loads about each other—I know about the rent boy thing, he knows about my crippling phobia of finding a ginger hair in my toothbrush, I know about his alcoholic ex-wife, he has carried me into the flat after I have fallen down the stairs with a fucked-up ankle and my cock hanging out of my pyjamas, I know about his weird experience with Anderson at the dinosaur exhibit, he knows that Mycroft and I don’t exactly hate each other’s guts and in fact had a certain amount of affection for one another in what might be termed a 4chan fan art way... basically what I am saying is that Lestrade knows me better than practically anyone, and I thought that when he got dragged into things he would take in stride with a cheerful ‘All right, jolly good’ and see it as just a trifling little favour he could carry out for an old friend and colleague.

 

Apparently he had taken it a bit hard.  And by hard I mean with an erection.

 

‘I need to consult my people,’ I said, ‘can I call you back?’

 

Five minutes later I was standing in John’s bedroom doorway.

 

‘John,’ I said, ‘I know it is very early and you are sleeping, but I need your advice.’

 

‘Put the eyeballs in the kettle,’ John muttered from where his head was shoved under his pillow, ‘they’re sure to startle me there.’

 

‘Not prank advice!’ I was almost distraught.  ‘This is important!’

 

This made John actually sit up in bed and look over at me.  ‘What’s wrong, Sherlock?’

 

 ‘Lestrade is apparently romantically obsessed with me and I don’t know what to do about it because despite the fact that we have known each other practically forever and he owes me for solving complicated murders for him, he seems to think that my kissing him and sucking his cock and calling him darling means that I want to pursue a relationship of some kind rather than it all just being a game to get back at you, and I don’t want to hurt him but I don’t know what to do.’

 

John narrowed his eyes at me and switched the light on beside his bed, so he could peer at me better.  ‘Have you just been snorting cocaine?’

 

‘What?  No!  John, this is serious.’

 

Somewhere he had acquired a pen light—he might even keep one in his pyjamas—and was flashing it at me.  ‘C’mere, let me see your pupils.’

 

‘I am not on drugs!  I have just been on the phone with Lestrade and found out all of this, and, I might add, he’s not really any less fascinated with your inherent attractiveness than he is with mine, and he thinks the both of us are playing with him.’

 

Having smuggled his pen light back from whence it had come, John casually cracked his neck and stretched, swinging his legs over to dangle off the side of the bed.  ‘Well, aren’t we?’

 

‘I don’t know, are we?’

 

John gave this a moment of thought while he put on his slippers.  ‘I was playing with you, actually.’

 

‘I, similarly, was playing with you.  But he is convinced that he’s the target of our sexual advances.’

 

‘Then he’s a silly ass.’

 

‘Exactly.  But what am I to do about it?  I’ve said I would call him back after consulting you.’

 

We were both silent for a long moment.  I broke it by saying, ‘He’s put up with my company for five years, John.  Five years!  That is longer than anyone who is not related to me.  I’ve had pets get sick of me quicker than that.’  I sighed.  ‘Lestrade and I are what one might consider rather close.  We have a shared history.’

 

John made a considering noise in his throat.  Despite my state of distress, I very much wanted to pounce on him right then and there.  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘how could we benefit from taking him on?’

 

I stared at John as if a second head had grown out of the side of his neck and taken over the conversation.  ‘Sorry, what?’

 

‘What if,’ said John, now standing and slinging on his dressing gown, ‘Lestrade were our boyfriend?’

 

‘I thought you were straight,’ I said pointedly, fearlessly probing the underlying issues that created the foundation of this recent madness.

 

John laughed at this for a long time; I almost threw a glass of water in his face, fearing this was some kind of hysterical episode, but he managed to pull himself together.  ‘Ha ha!’  He smoothed out his expression and wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye.  ‘Sorry.  No.  God, no.’

 

I glared at him.  I confess to feeling somewhat bitter and led-on.  ‘However could I have got that impression, then, I wonder?’

 

John shrugged good-naturedly.  ‘No idea.  Perhaps because I got a girlfriend to annoy you?’

 

‘What!’

 

‘But we’re straying from the point.  Lestrade is no doubt waiting anxiously by the phone.’

 

‘Yes.  Right.  What’s to be done?’

 

John rubbed his hands together excitedly.  ‘I say we have a go at him.  Why not?  I mean, he’s interested.’

 

I gave John a sceptical eye.  Not an actual one, of course.  I mean that I looked at him.  ‘Would we be having goes at him separately or together?’

 

‘Together makes the most sense, as he’s interested in both of us.  And how often in your life are you going to have the opportunity to have a threesome?  I mean, seriously.’

 

I felt we had come to the nub of the whole affair.  I stared at my hands, fidgeting.  ‘But you’re not interested in ME.’

 

John laughed again, but only for a second.  ‘Of course I am, you idiot.’

 

I gaped at him.  ‘When did this happen?’

 

‘Well, as a point of interest, Mycroft’s seen it since we met.’

 

‘Damn him,’ I said, ‘he doesn’t know everything.’

 

‘He knew this bit.’

 

‘Yes, but that doesn’t allow him to lord it over me like a bloody psychic nuisance.’

 

‘When I first met him, he intimated that we—you and I, I mean—ought to get married.’

 

‘Ha!  As if I would!’

 

John’s brow furrowed.  ‘What, so now you’re telling me you’re not interested?  Talk about mixed signals, Sherlock, God.  Make up your mind.’

 

I gave John a haughty look.  ‘I have the freedom to change my mind whenever I please.  I shall go back downstairs now and call Lestrade.’

 

‘Fine by me,’ said John crossly.  I like to think he understood how I felt, now.

 

‘Lestrade,’ I said into my phone when I got to my room again, ‘it’s been decided that you are now officially our boyfriend.’

 

‘Both of you?’

 

The man sounded incredulous!  ‘Ye-es, is there a problem?’

 

‘No, I just wasn’t expecting that.  So you two are together, as well?  I thought as much.’

 

Ah, he had come to the sensitive portion of the situation.  ‘No, actually, as far as I can tell.  We are both interested in you and that is as far as things will go, it seems.  John is a very proud man.’

 

‘Huh,’ said Lestrade, in a tone that suggested that stranger things had happened.  ‘And here I thought you two were cavorting like rabbits.’

 

‘I am nothing like a rabbit, Lestrade,’ I said loftily, ‘and it would do you well to remember that.’

 

‘Right, right.’

 

‘This tendency to compare me to rabbits will now cease.’

 

‘Absolutely.’

 

‘Are you laughing at me?  Why are you laughing?’

 

‘Nothing, Sherlock.  You just... you amaze me.’

 

‘Yes, well, I amaze a lot of people.  I am, after all, a genius.’

 

And that’s when I rang off.  I do believe I have shown him who is boss.

 

I looked up to find John standing in the doorway.  ‘Hi, gorgeous,’ he said.

 

‘Hello,’ I said, omitting a large number of endearments.

 

‘Thought maybe you’d like some tea,’ he said.  ‘I was going to make some.’

 

I said, ‘Not if there is semen in it, I am not in the mood.’

 

He said, ‘For semen?’

 

I told him, ‘Merely in a tea context.’

 

He smirked at me, damn him, he is so delicious I do not think I can stand it.  ‘So outside of a tea context, yes on the semen?’

 

I sighed.  ‘No, not just now, John.’

 

‘Are you sure?’  He was smiling and it was beautiful.  ‘This special offer may never occur again.’

 

I avoided the subject by saying, ‘We have a boyfriend, by the way.’

 

‘Oh?  Lestrade accepted?’

 

‘Heartily, one might say.’

 

‘Right,’ he said, running his tongue along the fronts of his teeth contemplatively.  ‘Good.  Fine.’  He paused.  He looked at me, and his eyebrows did that sad puppy-dog thing for about an eighth of a second, and then he went back to smiling and looked away.  ‘Excellent.’


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly helps out and shows her hidden depths, Sherlock is still an oblivious woobie, Mycroft gives excellent/terrible advice, Lestrade is ethically bankrupt, and Mrs Hudson clearly shouldn't let anyone into the house ever.

**Friday, 11 March 2011**

 **5:02am**

 **In my secret lair**

 **Nicotine patches today: None (shocking!)**

 **Cigarettes today: 12 (not bad, as I have been awake for four hours, but inconvenient as I must go on the roof to smoke them, or hang out of the window)**

Yesterday, after the early-morning boyfriend fandango (which I bet you anything is the name of an indie band from Camden) I went out to Barts and loitered until someone unlocked the lab doors.  Unsurprisingly, Molly works early.  It is not as if she has anything else to do.

 

‘Oh, hello!’ she said, coming up with her keys and turning vermillion.  ‘Er, you normally don’t come round until after nine or so, is something the matter?’

 

Honestly, women’s intuition can go hang.  It always catches me at my worst moments.

 

‘I have a boyfriend,’ I said hopelessly.

 

‘I was under the impression that you had two of them,’ she quipped, smiling a little despite her blush.  ‘And that one of them was a husband, actually.’

 

‘No, no,’ I said, ‘that was a ploy.’

 

‘I see.’

 

We walked to the morgue, listening to the sound of our shoes.

 

‘I haven’t got a clue what to do with this boyfriend,’ I said, unable to hold it in any longer.  Damn it, what was it about her mousy little blot of a face that inspired me to unprecedented attacks of honesty?

 

‘Check that he’s the right orientation first, is my advice,’ said Molly.

 

I almost laughed.  Poor Molly—she may be a completely naff, gormless and easily-manipulated milksop but at least she has a sense of humour about it.  ‘Well, apparently I have turned him gay with my personal attention, so we’re clear on that point.’

 

She said, ‘I’m not surprised.’

 

I looked rather helplessly around the room, fretting with the edges of my coat pockets.  ‘John is not the boyfriend in question.  Got any corpses I could flog?’

 

‘Ooh, really?’ she said excitedly.

 

‘No, it’s Lestrade.  Corpses, yes or no?’

 

Molly raised her thin little eyebrows until they almost disappeared into her hairline.  ‘You’re having it off with Detective Inspector Lestrade and John is sitting idly by and not doing anything to win you back?’

 

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I said, now going along the row of body lockers and checking them for occupants.  ‘John didn’t have me in the first place.  Besides, Lestrade is also John’s boyfriend.’

 

Molly’s eyes practically stood out on stalks like a snail’s.  Clearly this was too much slash for her frail mind to handle.  ‘So you are asking me to believe,’ she started, sounding like a breathy magistrate, ‘that both you and John are dating Lestrade and aren’t dating each other, as well?’

 

‘I’m not asking you to believe it, damn it, I’m just telling you.’  I had finally found a body, and pulled it out on its drawer, looking around for something with which to beat it.

 

‘You can’t hit that one,’ Molly pointed out, ‘that’s Lord Worplesdon, his autopsy is today.’

 

‘Fuck autopsies,’ I said, casting off my coat and rolling up my sleeves.  ‘And damn Lord Thingy for all he stands for.’

 

‘You ended a sentence with a preposition,’ said Molly, aghast.  ‘Have you had any nicotine today?’

 

‘No, I’m out of patches.  Stand back, I am about to bean this ex-Lord within an inch of his afterlife.’

 

She caught my sleeve.  ‘Sherlock, that doesn’t even make sense.  Put Lord Worplesdon back in his drawer and let’s go get a coffee.’

 

‘Damn coffee, John doesn’t know I exist!’

 

‘Of course he does, silly, you live with him.  He regularly saves your life.  Now, come on, you clearly need some stimulants, you look about to pass out.’

 

She eventually got me out of the morgue and round the corner to a coffee machine, from which she poured me a cup and shoved it into my trembling hands.

 

‘I need a cigarette,’ I said to her.  ‘I have not had a cigarette in three years.  Clearly this course of action was foolish.  If I had been full up with cigarettes, I would not have ended up with the wrong boyfriend.  I mean, it’s not that I’m not pleased to have one in the first place.  I am very attracted to Lestrade, and have been for a long time, but I am also very attracted to John and have at least been TRYING to get John’s attention.  I got Lestrade’s by mistake and now everything is wonky, Molly, why is life so wonky?’

 

‘I have a roof access key,’ she said, ‘and a pack of Djarums in my bag.’

 

I said, ‘I think I might love you a little bit right now.’

 

Surprisingly, Molly smokes like a chimney and gives very good advice.  Despite her having recently been obsessed with my recreational areas enough to give me hideous tea cosies shaped like Herpes Simplex Virus 2 microbes and to haunt my flat often enough to become knitting buddies with Mrs Hudson, she is invested more in my happiness than in getting into my trousers.  Possibly because she has seen my cock spats in person, and may have even knitted a few rows, and perhaps feels that I am not exactly anything to write home about.  One never knows with girls.  I hear they are very particular about these things.

 

 **6:28am**

I can’t eat breakfast, I am too lovelorn.  Also I had a peanut yesterday and I am still full from that.

 

After I got home from Barts yesterday I felt a bit better, but I was still torn as to what I should do.  I went back over my conversation with John, and it gave me the idea to call Mycroft.

 

‘Mycroft,’ I said, ‘darling brother for whom I hold a healthy regard.’

 

‘Sherlock,’ he said, ‘what do you want?’

 

‘Are you busy just now?’

 

‘Never too busy to laugh at your misfortune, my dear.  Are you having boy problems?’

 

I thought about saying no, it’s just that I had this friend who ended up dating the wrong person—that they wouldn’t mind dating under other circumstances, mind you, but if circumstances are anything it’s not different from what they are—while sharing said person with the person they wanted to be dating in the first place, but Mycroft would see right through that and besides, he has security cameras all over London and would know better, so I said, ‘For the love of God, yes, and I need your advice.’

 

‘Hmmmmm,’ he said, which only served to remind me of making John’s nose go ‘awooga’ that one time.  ‘Has John spurned your advances?  I rather think he wouldn’t, the man follows you like a puppy.’

 

‘He says he’s interested,’ I told him, ‘but it’s obvious that he is just humouring me.’

 

‘What has he said, exactly?’ said Mycroft in his calculating way.

 

‘He has put semen in my tea and called me an idiot.’

 

‘Is that all?’

 

I gave Mycroft a brief synopsis of our prank war.

 

‘I see, I see.  Well then, it sounds like your only course of action is to fuck him senseless.’

 

‘Mycroft, that is not the high-quality advice I was expecting to receive when I rang you up.’

 

‘No?  It’s all you’re getting, you ungrateful young hound.’

 

‘But he says I am an idiot.  How do I go about seducing him if he thinks I’m an idiot, even after all we’ve been through?’

 

Mycroft laughed like a drain.  ‘If you think he needs any further seducing, then you ARE an idiot.’

 

‘So why hasn’t he done anything about it?’

 

‘He _has_ been doing something about it, Sherlock, dear.  You just keep missing it, or thinking he’s doing it to score off you.’

 

‘I am not that dim, Mycroft.’

 

‘Oh, but clearly you are.  Tra la,’ he said, and rang off.

 

Honestly, I wonder why I even bother with him in times of dire need.  He is always cheeky and foul.

 

 **7:04am**

I have been reviewing my How to Win John Over checklist.  I have clearly done everything on the list at least a million times, even read his blog and show the capacity for basic human kindness.  And yet have I won him over?  Not in any obvious way.  Both Molly and Mycroft have said that I am basically the most oblivious clod in the universe and that I have already got John’s undying devotion.

 

Perhaps I am an oblivious clod.

 

This is a grave defect in my otherwise flawless character.  I am distressed.

 

 **7:23am**

Mycroft says I ought to just pounce on John and be done with it.  I must think about this.

 

 **7:55am**

Maybe he’s right.

 

 **8:35am**

I went up to John’s room and knocked on his door.  He appeared to be having a lie-in.

 

‘What,’ he said groggily from the depths of his room.

 

I said, ‘May I come in and pounce on you, please?’

 

I heard him shuffling around and then the door opened and I saw one of his eyes peering blearily at me through the gap.  ‘Beg pardon?’

 

‘Sorry if I woke you.’

 

‘What did you say before that?’

 

‘I said, May I come in and pounce on you, please?’

 

John pinched the bridge of his nose.  ‘That’s not something you ask a person, Sherlock.’

 

I made my eyes very big.  ‘I was attempting to be polite like a regular person.  You have, after all, taken issue with my lack of manners in the past in regard to your personal space and use of your time.’

 

‘Okay, but in future, if you want to pounce on me, there ought to be an element of surprise, all right?’

 

‘Oh,’ I said.

 

‘You can just come in—you know I don’t lock my door.  You do it often enough, anyway, gluing eyeballs to my ceiling and whatnot.  Putting spats on me.’

 

‘Oh,’ I said.

 

‘Was that all?’

 

I gazed at him for a long moment.  His eyes are so beautiful, even with sleep in them.  I love the wiggly lines in his forehead and the two little straight ones between his brows.  I love his funny nose.  I love that his mouth is crooked.

 

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s all.’  And I went off downstairs.

 

 **9:02am**

God, I am such an idiot!  I could have just turned round, waited for him to close the door, then turned round again, opened it and pinned him to his bed, having regained the element of surprise.  Why do I not think of these things until afterwards?  Damn damnity damn damn fuck damn.

 

 **10:20am**

Had a brilliant idea and texted our boyfriend.

 

 _John says he is attracted to me but isn’t doing anything about it.  What should I do? –SH_

 _From what I’ve gathered, you have no qualms about locking someone in a closet with you and performing oral sex on them.  Have you tried that? –L_

 _Of course not, what nonsense!  That would be forward. –SH_

 _So doing it to me isn’t forward?  Ha! –L_

 _But we have a history. –SH_

 _Doesn’t mean that made it any less hot, or less surprising.  Jesus.  You have such double standards. –L_

 _You make it sound as if I didn’t beg you practically endlessly, five years ago. –SH_

 _I have a mountain of files to review, could you maybe lay off the talk of begging to suck my cock?  I need to concentrate. –L_

 _What should I do about John? –SH_

 _I don’t know, use your massive intellect. –L_

 _He’s YOUR boyfriend. –SH_

 _And has been for less than forty-eight hours!  He’s been YOUR flatmate for over a year. –L_

 _Which makes it even harder to know how to approach him in a sexual fashion, I see the man every day. –SH_

 _Just DO something, it doesn’t matter what it is, and I can win my damned bet. –L_

 _WHAT BET??? –SH_

 _There’s been a pool round the office since last April whether you’d jump him first or whether John would jump you.  I bet you’d make the first move. –L_

 _THAT IS UNETHICAL AND ALSO I HATE YOU AND YOUR STUPID FACE. –SH_

 _Come on, lover boy, make Daddy some money. –L_

 _However much that statement made me squirm, the fact that you are betting on my love life disgusts me. –SH_

 _I’d say it’s worth it for £500. –L_

 _Please come by when you go off duty, I have some choice words to say to you. –SH_

 **10:30am**

Lestrade’s right, damn it.  I need to do something, it doesn’t matter what.  I should probably go see if John is home.

 

 **10:31am**

Wait, no.  That would seem pathetic and desperate after this morning’s events.  I will stay put and not wonder whether John is home or not, as it doesn’t matter.

 

I couldn’t care less.

 

 **10:33am**

I can’t possibly survive without seeing his face!  I’m wasting away!

 

Going to go see what he’s up to.

 

 **11:45am**

I found John in the kitchen, making toast like a Renaissance painting of a particularly noteworthy angel.

 

‘Hello,’ I said, leaning elegantly on the doorframe and raising a flirtatious brow.

 

‘Hi,’ he said, unscrewing the lid to the marmalade.  ‘What’s that face for, have you got a pain?’

 

‘I have not got a pain.  I am being seductive.’  One would think that it would be obvious even to the meanest intelligence.

 

‘Oh,’ he said, spooning a heaping blob of marmalade onto his toast.  ‘Right.’

 

I stood there, striking a sexy pose, for upwards of a minute before he looked up again.

 

‘Was there something you wanted?’ he said, smiling lightly.  He looked like someone’s kindly uncle, standing there with his jumper and his marmalade and his adorable smile.

 

‘Only your undying devotion,’ I said, fluttering my eyelashes.  I have read somewhere that this is attractive.

 

‘I see,’ said John, licking the spoon contemplatively.  ‘Is that all?’

 

‘And, if it’s not too much trouble, for you to occasionally sing David Bowie songs with me while I am in the bath, but if that is not something you feel you can provide at this stage in your life, I can fulfil that void in our relationship elsewhere.’

 

‘I see,’ he repeated.  ‘Heard from Lestrade?’

 

I scowled instantly.  ‘Why do you ask when I am right here and can be just as attractive as he is?’

 

John laughed.  ‘I’m just curious, as I got a text from him that said you’ve been tearing your hair out because I’m not all over you like cocaine on the paper denominations of your seventh-form pocket money.’

 

‘That was low,’ I said, narrowing my eyes at him.

 

‘It got a reaction, didn’t it?’  He took a bite of his toast and chewed it slowly before continuing.  ‘I’ve discovered through careful observation that you’re more likely to touch me when you’re cross than otherwise.’

 

I blinked at him.  It was along the same lines as batting my eyelashes, only not so much on purpose.  ‘Is that why you’ve been wilfully ignoring my advances for months?’

 

‘Yes,’ said John.

 

‘Just to frustrate me?’

 

‘Now you’ve got it.’

 

‘Just to... just to make me cross?’

 

‘Absolutely spot-on.’

 

‘So all the pranks, the snogging Lestrade, the semen in my tea, saying my name while wanking, all that was to annoy me?’

 

‘And make you pay a bit more attention, yeah.’

 

I stared at him with a wild surmise.  ‘You must be mad or something.’

 

He laughed, shaking his head a bit.  ‘To live with you, I’ve got to be.’

 

 **11:50am**

Note to self: It’s very nice to kiss someone who tastes like marmalade.

 

 **6:31pm**

Mrs Hudson just called up the stairs, ‘Sherlock, John, dears!  There’s a young man here to see you.’

 

‘Must be Lestrade,’ I said to John, knowing that Mrs Hudson’s manner of categorising certain men as young is a little odd.  ‘Can you go down and fetch him?’

 

So John went off out the door and looked down into the foyer, and as soon as he had done that he tore back into the living room and slammed the door behind him.

 

‘What is wrong with you?’ I demanded.

 

He said breathlessly, ‘You’d slam the door, too, if you saw who it was.’

 

I rolled my eyes.  ‘Has Mycroft dropped by unexpectedly?  Damn him, and when we’re expecting an actual guest, as well!’

 

‘Sherlock,’ said John very seriously, ‘Moriarty is downstairs.’

 

Well, fuck.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty unveils his evil plan, Sherlock appeals to lurkers for help, death threats abound, Moriarty explains the concept of a friendly kidnapping and is incredibly jealous.

**Still Friday, 11 March 2011**

 **8:08pm**

 **Locked in the back of a cab with my arch-nemesis**

I have been kidnapped.  Moriarty inexplicably escaped from prison to inexplicably grab me from my flat and haul me off to some unspecified location for unspecified reasons, but most likely for underhanded skulduggery and criminal insanity.  Fortunately he has allowed me to keep my phone (on the sole condition that I contact neither the police nor John), which is how I am updating my journal now.  I can only hope that one of my rabidly devoted readers sees this and goes through the proper channels to effect my inevitable rescue.  Hello out there, if you’re reading this!  If you contact the London Metropolitan Police I will be forever grateful to you and probably kiss your face, or indeed whatever part of your person upon which you may desire me to press my lips.

 

We have been stuck in weekend dinner traffic for over an hour, and Moriarty has been very cheerful in his usual scary-as-fuck way.  He’s wearing a rather nice suit, it must be said.  I’m sure it’s probably Westwood, as he favours that designer.  I have no idea where he was keeping the gun in there, as the suit in question is very closely tailored, but evil geniuses move in mysterious ways.

 

I feel I am in a rather undignified position, as he had the cabbie engage the child safety locks on the passenger doors so I can’t escape.

 

What happened was this: Moriarty was in the foyer.  While John was going to get his gun I stuck my head out to make sure that Mrs Hudson was not dead as she is a very nice lady and puts up with me, and Moriarty happened to be standing right at the top of the stairs all of a sudden, pointing a gun at my neck.  He said, ‘Good evening, my love!  Positively _ripping_ to see you, did you get my postcard?  Wasn’t it lovely?  I sent it just after I escaped, with a forged post mark so you wouldn’t worry.  I do hate to make you worry, you’ll get frown lines.  Get your shoes on, would you, darling?  You’re coming with me tonight.  It’s time for a little adventure.’

 

Just as I was about to tell him where he could stick both my shoes and his adventure he fired a shot into the ceiling.  John, who had apparently only just located his gun, appeared at the top of the stairs that lead to his room and fired off a shot at Moriarty, but wasn’t able to get him because he (Moriarty) lunged forward, grabbed my arm, put his gun to my cheekbone and started hauling me backwards down the stairs.

 

‘Don’t worry, John,’ said Moriarty, ‘I’ll have him back before pumpkin time.’

 

And I got dragged off into an unmarked cab, with John and Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway staring after us, John firing off a few rounds to try and blow out the tires of the cab, Mrs Hudson frantically dialling the phone.

 

So, here I am.  Hello world!  I hope to God or whoever is in charge of this rubbish that people actually read my entries.

 

I wonder where we’re going.

 

 **8:15pm**

I do very much hope that I’m not going to die; I have only just got things sorted.

 

 **8:27pm**

I’ve been taken to a small, designer suit emporium in Bond Street.  This will be interesting.

 

 **9:00pm**

It may shock some of you, but until tonight I have never worn Armani.

 

I asked Moriarty as he casually pointed his gun at me while a harried-looking attendant took my measurements, ‘Why are you buying me a suit?’

 

‘And shoes,’ he pointed out, idly screwing a silencer onto his gun.

 

‘Fine; have it your way,’ I said.  ‘Why?’

 

‘You can’t dine at a five-star gourmet restaurant in skinny jeans and a David Bowie tee shirt,’ said Moriarty.  ‘And _trainers_.’  He drew out the last word like a disgusted fashion commentator with a ringside seat at some red carpet event.  He made ‘trainers’ sound like ‘the advanced and putrefying stages of syphilis.’

 

‘I could, you know,’ I said, petulant to the last.  ‘Perhaps they have Casual Fridays.’

 

‘I’d have to kill you,’ Moriarty sighed, as if it were a great burden on his soul.  ‘Oh, are we done here?’ he addressed the attendant.  ‘Yes, in black, with the blue shirt.  Oh, and the wing-tips.  Yes, I’ll be paying with credit.’  And Moriarty shot him.

 

‘You just killed that man,’ I said, for sometimes these things need to be spoken aloud to make sense.

 

‘I know, sweetheart,’ said Moriarty, smiling in a way that can only be described as coquettish.  ‘Thank you ever so much for noticing.’

 

If anyone is reading this, there is a dead man in the last fitting cubicle on the right of the suit emporium in Bond Street on the north side.  Time of death is approximately 8:41pm, single gunshot wound to the chest.  There does not appear to be anyone else in the shop.

 

Send help.

 

 **9:30pm**

Back in the cab.  I have looked up on my phone all of the five-star gourmet restaurants in London but this hasn’t given me any more of an idea as to which one we’re attending.  I have tried to ask Moriarty but he has been very quiet, simply watching me enter search queries into my phone and smiling like he hasn’t a care in the world.  At one point he may have been humming the Wedding March, but I could have just been imagining it.

 

 **9:51pm**

I asked Moriarty, ‘Why have you kidnapped me?  Is this for some kind of revenge?’

 

He said, ‘No, no, no!  Not revenge.  Why would I want revenge on you, pet?’  And he smiled like a jumble of knives.

 

‘Oh, I don’t know, sending you to prison for life may have been a motivating factor,’ I said.

 

‘Nonsense!’ he said with a laugh that was actually quite nice and not very creepy at all when compared to the way he talks.  ‘Haven’t you ever had a friend kidnap you, Sherlock?’

 

‘No, sorry.  Usually friends don’t let friends kidnap them.’

 

He chuckled to himself.  ‘Goodness, what sort of friends have you got, then?’

 

‘Mostly law-abiding ones,’ I muttered through my teeth.  He went on as if he hadn’t heard.

 

‘You’ve got it all wrong, darling.  When a friend kidnaps you, they take you away from your dull, dreary and very, very boring day-to-day life and take you out to do exciting things!  You go shopping and have dinner and maybe go to the cinema, that sort of jolly stuff.’

 

I stared at him.  ‘You’ve kidnapped me to take me on a date,’ I said.  It wasn’t a question.

 

‘Yes!’ Moriarty squealed happily.  ‘Isn’t it grand?  Isn’t this the most romantic thing?  It’s all a big surprise, you see, because you don’t know where we’re going or when we’ll get there, or when I’ll let you go home.’  He patted my hand affectionately.  ‘IF I let you go home, I mean.  I may decide to keep you forever!’  He said this like it would be a huge treat for everyone involved.

 

I said in a very deadpan way, ‘I’m trembling with joy.’

 

We rode in silence for awhile, he toying with my hair, I getting used to the new suit and staring out of the window, but then Moriarty broke the silence by saying in a quiet, growling, petulantly self-satisfied voice, ‘ _John_ doesn’t take you on dates.’

 

I said, ‘Er, no.  No, actually, he doesn’t, as we’ve only just now got our relationship threshed out and on the right footing.’

 

Moriarty narrowed his eyes, not making eye contact but sort of focusing on the middle distance in front of my face.  ‘He ought to _die_.’

 

I frowned and said, ‘No, he oughtn’t.’

 

‘Detective Inspector Lestrade doesn’t take you on dates, either,’ Moriarty pointed out, determined to get his way.

 

‘He hasn’t had the chance,’ I said.  ‘The three of us were going to have a bit of one tonight.  Lestrade was on his way before you turned up and kidnapped me.’

 

‘He ought to die, too,’ said Moriarty, and he hitched up his face into a brilliant smile.  ‘Would that make you happy?’

 

‘No,’ I said firmly.  ‘That would make me very cross with you.’

 

‘O-oh,’ said Moriarty in his low, singsong way.  ‘I can’t have _that_.’


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock realises LJ comments can be a force for good (haven't we all?), Stamford saves the day, Donovan and Anderson make an appearance, and everything resolves itself.

**It is still Friday, 11 March 2011**

 **10:00pm**

 **Still kidnapped and still in a cab with Moriarty**

 **Also I want a cigarette so badly I could tear out my eyes**

I have realised that I could potentially contact the police through answering my LJ comments.  I just have to wait for someone to leave a comment.

 

 **10:05pm**

Where are you, friends list?  I am in mortal peril!  Now is the time to de-lurk!

 

 **10:07pm**

And here I thought I had loyal readers!  But where are they now?  Sunk in hoggish slumber, probably, or watching telly, or being so concerned with their own piddling little problems that they don’t give a toss about my SWIFTLY APPROACHING AND INEVITABLE DEATH.

 

 **10:10pm**

I have just realised that Moriarty is getting notifications on his phone every time I post an entry.  DEAR GOD SO THAT’S HOW HE KNEW ABOUT MY LOVE LIFE.

 

 **10:11pm**

Eeeew, this also means that he knows about me mentally slashing him with my brother.

 

And the fan art of Mycroft eating me.

 

And my cock spats.

 

And my shouting sexual noises through a kitchen roll tube at Sarah.

 

And my drinking tea even though I knew it had John’s semen in it.

 

And that one time I imagined Lestrade dressed as a Mounty.

 

 **10:15pm**

Oh God my life is over.

 

 **10:24pm**

We have arrived at the restaurant, whatever it is.  Moriarty covered my eyes as we were going in and it’s one of those super-posh places that don’t even have menus, they just give you food and assume you like it.

 

Well, Moriarty may expect me to make an exception for him because he has a gun down the back of his trousers, but as a rule I do not eat food.

 

So, ha!  That’ll put a spoke in his wheel!

 

 **10:32pm**

I’ve just realised that either Moriarty left his phone in the cab or its battery died, because he’s not getting notifications anymore, and I didn’t see him turn it off or anything.

 

 **10:46pm**

Oh my fucking God, Stamford is here!  Stamford is here at the bar with some blonde woman!  He’ll rescue me, I’m sure of it!  He’s known me for ages.  Maybe I can get his attention.

 

 **10:50pm**

I threw a breadstick at his head while Moriarty wasn’t looking.  It hit Stamford’s date instead, but what of it?  At least she looked up.

 

Stamford didn’t, though.  I guess he doesn’t give a toss whether his lady friends are struck by bread grenades.

 

 **10:55pm**

Moriarty has been intermittently caressing my thigh with the business end of his gun.  I do not know what to think of this.  His gun has a very long, hard, phallic silencer.

 

 **11:16pm**

I am determinedly not eating.  Moriarty is a little cross, but he can’t poke me in the cock with his gun and eat _foie gras_ at the same time, at least without occasionally missing his mouth with his fork, so for this course I am out of immediate danger.

 

 **11:21pm**

I have successfully caught Stamford’s eye in the bar mirror!  Now all I have to do is relay a sense of urgency.

 

I think mouthing very big, ‘HELP, THIS ESCAPED CONVICT HAS A GUN IN MY BALLS’ will do the trick.  Now Moriarty has to look away, damn it, or I can’t do a bloody thing.

 

 **11:23pm**

I never thought I would say this, but I have taken off my shoe and am running my foot across Moriarty’s lap under the table.  He seems terribly pleased by this cooperative development and has even taken his gun off me for awhile.  If I make him a bit more pleased, it looks like he may close his eyes for a moment.

 

I may only have one chance.

 

 **Saturday, 12 March 2011**

 **12:02am**

 **Running in one shoe down the street, trying to hail a cab**

 **Dear God I need a cigarette**

Stamford came to my aid at just the right moment and hit Moriarty over the head with a silver bowl that had apparently held some description of fern over by the bar.  I thanked Stamford, he told me to run for it and took Moriarty’s gun while he flagged down a waiter.  ‘Excuse me,’ he was saying as I legged it out the door, ‘this man has just tried to shoot my colleague.’  I feel a bit sorry for his date but that is just what one gets when one has the same taste in restaurants as an evil mastermind.

 

It is difficult to type while running and I think I have a piece of glass in my sock, but the public has a right to know what trials I am suffering in the name of justice.

 

Oh, look!  A police car!

 

 **12:27am**

Despite having Anderson in it, the car picked me up because Donovan was driving and had apparently been sent out by Lestrade to look for me.  She let me climb into the back, which is something she has probably longed to see for years, me on the other side of that mesh grate thing that separates the officer driving from the people they’ve hauled in, I mean, as if I were a prisoner or something.

 

‘Got the freak,’ Donovan said churlishly into the radio on the dashboard.  ‘He’s fine, unfortunately.’  It’s almost as if she’d hoped I would turn up floating in the Thames, all green and gnawed by wildlife.

 

‘Why are you here, Anderson?’ I asked.

 

‘I volunteered,’ he muttered.

 

‘Hoping you’d get to see my mangled corpse?’

 

‘A man can dream.’

 

‘Could you possibly send someone back to that restaurant?’ I said as nicely as I could while I picked glass out of my sock.  ‘There’s an escaped convict in that place, being held there only by the will of a chubby professor from Barts and the fact that he has been skilfully knocked unconscious with a bowl of dirt.’

 

‘He’s talking drivel, isn’t he?’ said Anderson to Donovan.

 

‘I am not talking drivel,’ I said, which was true.

 

‘Been to your website recently,’ said Anderson, changing the subject willy-nilly and showing no concept of proper conversational segues.

 

‘Have you, indeed?’ I said.  ‘ _Fascinating_.’

 

‘Did you know,’ he said, looking at me in the wing mirror, ‘that someone on your forum’s put up terrible drawings of John fucking a jumper?’

 

I pulled a mock-horrified face.  ‘No!  Really?  The nerve of some people.’

 

 **12:45am**

I have just remembered to check my inbox to see what everyone was texting me all night when I couldn’t answer them.

 

 _Lestrade’s here, we’re going to look for you. –John_

 _We’re tracking the cab now.  We should find you soon. –L_

 _I do so love my cameras!  I shall be watching your evening with great interest. –Mycroft_

 _Saw your netbook open to a journal thing, checked it.  Thank God you’ve got your phone.  Police are on the way to Bond Street. –John_

 _Just hang on, whatever’s happening, just hang on.  We’ll find you. –John_

 _If you end up dead I will never forgive you, you bastard. –L_

 _Thank God you’re alive.  Keep posting so I know what’s happening. Lestrade’s got cars on the way. –John_

I feel very cared for—except by Mycroft, who of course only got a laugh out of the whole thing, damn him.

 

 **4:16am**

Home again, finally.  It took forever to do the police reports and things, and they had to seize my suit and one leftover shoe as evidence, so I had to go home in a blanket and not much else.  I feel that my greatest loss in this situation is that my favourite David Bowie shirt is floating around in an unmarked cab somewhere, never to return.

 

But at least when I got home I got to sit on John’s lap on the sofa and he stroked my hair.  I also got to hold Mr Mugsy and his friend the explicit-photos giraffe.

 

‘It was horrible, John,’ I told him.  ‘He took my favourite shirt away and rubbed a gun all over my legs and I had to be sexy and distract him so I could get away, and I could feel his bits through my sock.’  I made my eyes very big.  ‘Against _these very toes_ , John!  I think I may be somewhat traumatised.’

 

He kissed my forehead; even sitting down, he had to stretch up a bit to get to it.  ‘Oh, hush.’

 

Mrs Hudson has brought us tea, which is devoid of any trace of semen, and I have eaten three custard creams already.  I think I may have gone mad, because I kind of want another one.  Lestrade has called and said that as soon as things wrap up at the station he’ll come over and give me a cuddle, which is nice of him.  Mycroft has even rallied round and said that, if I wanted, he could get me an actual shirt that had been actually worn by the actual David Bowie, and I said that if I had something like that I would probably have a fit every time I saw it, and John objected on that point from purely a medical perspective, so I was a trifle cross.  But it is the thought that counts and I thanked Mycroft for not being horrible, for once.

 

Moriarty, I’ve been told, will probably be going into solitary confinement with a straitjacket so he can’t break out again and put guns on my cock in restaurants.  Knowing him he will sing haunting melodies to the prison rats and win their affection so that they chew him free and slaughter the guards, but on these occasions one can attempt to be optimistic and hope that Moriarty is tone-deaf.

 

I am glad I am not dead.  I really am pleased to have just got everything sorted.

 

I wonder if Mrs Hudson will knit Lestrade a cock spat to match mine and John’s?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cock Spats](https://archiveofourown.org/works/583000) by [swtalmnd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd/pseuds/swtalmnd)




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